


Blue Skies

by kethni



Category: The Bill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kethni/pseuds/kethni





	Blue Skies

 

 

Prologue: 1940

 

May 18th

 

Belgium: the Scheldt River.

 

It’s springtime and the flowers are blooming. Petals dance in the air and leaves waft in the breeze.

 

The soldiers stay pressed to the ground as the planes criss-cross overhead peppering the area with bullets.

 

“Bloody Belgians,” Sergeant Matthew Boyden mutters. “Trust them to back down and leave us to sort the crap out for them.”

 

“Shut up,” Sergeant Craig Gilmore suggests.

 

“If they’d have let us come over early, the bloody Jerries wouldn’t have taken Antwerp, would they?”

 

“Boyden,  _shut up_!” Lieutenant Best says crisply.

 

“Sir.”

 

In the air above, the final German plane is making a spirited attempt to get by the British Hurricanes and strafes the soldiers below. Bullets rain down, raking across the men, and then the German pilot bails out as his plane hurtles towards the ground.

 

***

 

Sergeant Gilmore walks along the line of dead men, jotting down their names, and closing their eyes:

 

Pvt Meadows, John

Pvt Burnside, Francis

Pvt Monroe, Andrew

Corporal Dashwood, Michael

Corporal Lines, Alfred

Sergeant Penny, Thomas

Captain Hayward, Benjamin

 

“Boyden tells me that the burial party is ready, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Best says quietly.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Do you know? If you’d asked me six months ago how I’d feel about seven dead men in my unit, I’d have said I’d be horrified.” Best shakes his head. “Now I feel relieved it wasn’t more.”

 

“We’ve had worse, Sir.”

 

“Very true, Sergeant, very true. Would you get the men together for the burial please?”

 

***

 

“And the Captain? What are we going to do without a Captain, eh?” Boyden whines.

 

“Have one less toffee-nosed child to take orders from is what,” Corporal Taviner retorts. “Good riddance that’s what I say.”

 

A hand grabs Taviner by the front of his uniform, drags him to his feet, and slams him against the nearest tree.

 

“If I hear you talking like that again, Scouse, I won’t just have your stripes, I’ll have you up in front of a court martial, you clear?” Gilmore demands.

 

“Keep your hair on, Sarge, I was only saying.”

 

“Only demoralising the troops and spreading dissension in the ranks, is that about the size of it?” Gilmore lets go of Taviner’s tunic and leans in close. “This ain’t a democracy, Taviner. They give the orders, and we follow them, and that’s all there is.”

 

“And then we die,” Taviner snarls.

 

“You reckon you could do better? We’d be dead in a day. Now sit down and shut up before I knock your ruddy block off.”

 

“Sarge,” Taviner says coldly.

 

***

 

“Bleedin’ hell, that Sergeant Gilmore’s got some pepper in him,” Lieutenant Webb remarks.

 

“Got to hand it to these sergeants,” Best remarks, taking a discreet swig of his brandy and handing it to Webb. “They’re the ones dealing with the griping and bellyaching.”

 

“Don’t blame them men for griping,” Webb remarks. “My dad was in the Great War, and he said the officers were useless.”

 

“Everyone’s dad was in the Great War. How did you end up as an officer?” Best asks curiously.

 

“Oi, I’ll have you know I left Cambridge wiv a double first,” Webb says proudly. “Not nicked either if that’s what you’re thinking! Not just the toffs that get to be officers now you know. We jumped-up scholarship kids can do just as well as you lot.”

 

“Or just as badly.”

 

“Huh, yeah.” Webb squints into the distance. “You heard anything about this retreat?”

 

“Keep your voice down!” Best hisses. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

 

“It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

 

***

 

Gilmore zips up his trousers quickly, and looks over his shoulder as he hears a crackle behind him.

 

Lieutenant Best coughs into his fist.

 

“We’ve had orders, Sergeant.”

 

“Sir?” Gilmore turns around.

 

“We’re moving out in the morning. We’re to march back through Belgium, and France.”

 

Gilmore licks his lips slowly.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Best leans against a bole and sighs.

 

“You’re career army?”

 

“No Sir, I joined up when we declared war.” Gilmore straightens his uniform.

 

“Really, I imagined that you had been in the army, man and boy.”

 

“We all do what we have to, Sir.”

 

“Very true.” Best rubs his eyes. “That’s all we can do.”

 

***

 

“Retreat, that’s what it is,” Boyden whines.

 

“Come on, Sarge, you must be glad we’re getting out of Belgium,” Private Stamp remarks.

 

“If you don’t both shut up no-one will be going anywhere,” Gilmore snaps.

 

“Oh right yeah,” Taviner sneers, “These woods are just full of…”

 

There is a small explosion of sound.

 

“SNIPER!” Gilmore bellows. “GET DOWN!”

 

The soldiers fall to the ground, leaving Taviner standing alone. He touches the hot blood pumping from his chest. A second gunshot, and Taviner falls to the ground silently.

 

Birds that had been scared by the shots return to the trees and resume singing. The soldiers lay pressed against the ground, the scent of the rich earth mingling with Taviner’s blood, and the heat from their bodies rising into the air.

 

Stamp very slowly raises his rifle to his eye and sights on a shape in the trees. He squeezes the trigger gently and the shape drops to the ground.

 

They move quickly before the dropped man can recover. Gilmore, Stamp, and Best rush over to the fallen sniper while Boyden checks Taviner and the other men watch for snipers.

 

A young boy of about eleven or twelve is lying on the ground. Blood is pumping out of a vivid wound in his throat.

 

“Shit,” Stamp says softly.

 

“He must have thought we were Jerries,” Best says, cocking his revolver.

 

Gilmore kneels on the ground and checks the boy over.

 

“Well?” Best asks.

 

“No, no chance,” Gilmore says quietly.

 

“Have the men dig a couple of graves,” Best says quietly.

 

The others return to Taviner and begin digging two graves. Stamp winces as Best fires a single shot.

 

***

 

**May 25 th Dunkirk**

 

The noise on the beach is deafening. The Luftwaffe and RAF duel overhead day and night as a mismatched flotilla makes endless mercy runs.

 

A German plane breaks off from the dogfight to strafe the beach, soldiers throw themselves flat, and sailors rush off deck.

 

Second Lieutenant Ashton is lying on the beach. The sand beneath his legs is red and seeped with his blood. The screaming of the planes blot out Ashton’s painful weeping.

 

There is a ragged cheer as the German plane ditches into the sea, taking its pilot with it.

 

Hands grab Ashton under the armpits, and he is carried bodily onto a private yacht moored nearby.

 

There is a makeshift hospital in the forward passenger deck and Ashton is laid with the other groaning, injured soldiers. A marine lying nearby is glistening with fever from a gangrenous chest wound.

 

When the yacht has as many men as it can take, it sets sail for England.

 

***

 

The bullet is green when they dig it out. The doctors tut and shake their heads over Ashton’s weeping wound. They pour on iodine and antiseptic, and ignore Ashton’s protests that he feels much better.

 

They prod and poke at his leg, waiting for gangrene to appear.

 

***

 

**May 28 th Dunkirk**

 

“So, this is Operation Dynamo,” Webb remarks dryly, looking at the anthill of activity on the beach. “Planes strafing overhead, and the Jerries marching up behind us.”

 

“Strategic withdrawal,” Best corrects mildly. “Let’s just hope we can get our injured seen to.”

 

The two officers march down onto the beach followed by the remaining soldiers. The hand to hand fighting has taken its toll on them: Stamp has a broken arm, Cullen is limping along, and Gilmore is cradling his injured ribs.

 

“Nearly there, chaps,” Best says encouragingly. “Soon be home.”

 

***

 

**Part One**

**1944**

 

The POW camp is quiet at night. The prisoners in their barracks: playing card games, reading, or talking. Outside guards patrol with trained dogs, and the perimeter towers sweep their searchlights across the compound.

 

Lieutenant James Anderson fixes his expression and approaches the guard outside the little hut serving as solitary confinement.

 

“Halt! Who goes there?”

 

“Lieutenant Anderson.”

 

“Password?”

 

“Trojan.”

 

Sergeant Smith lowers the rifle and salutes.

 

“Sir!”

 

“Need to talk to the prisoner. Take a break, would you?”

 

Smith shuffles uncomfortably.

 

“Sir? That’s against regulations.”

 

“Sergeant, are you aware that interpreting regulations for a senior officer can be considered insubordination?” Anderson growls.

 

“No sir! Sorry Sir!” Smith clutches his rifle. “I’ll go to the break room, Sir!”

 

“Good man.”

 

***

 

Smith is sitting in the break room having a cigarette when the door is thrown open angrily.

 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Sergeant Major Gilmore demands.

 

“The lieutenant…”

 

“PUT OUT THAT CIGARETTE AND STAND WHEN YOU’RE TALKING TO ME!”

 

On the other side of the room several privates nearly bite clean through their cigarettes.

 

Smith stands rigidly at attention.

 

“Sergeant Major, Lieutenant Anderson ordered me to leave my post so that he could talk to Prisoner 289 Morelli.” Smith swallows nervously. “I informed the Lieutenant that it’s against regulations for him to talk to the prisoner alone, but he insisted, and threatened to have me put on a charge of insubordination.”

 

“And who did you inform?” Gilmore asks.

 

“Sorry, Sergeant Major?”

 

“When this officer gave you orders directly in conflict with military law, to whom did you report the matter?”

 

“Well I…”

 

“Listen to me, Smith! If a lieutenant tells you to disobey one of my orders, I want to know about it right away. Not the next day, not the next week, and not when I catch you sitting on your arse smoking a roll-up! Am I clear?”

 

“Crystal clear, Sergeant Major!”

 

***

 

“I am losing my mind in here,” Morelli complains. His voice is cultured and lightly accented.

 

“Shouldn’t go getting into fights then should you, Roberto?” Anderson says softly. He sits next to Morelli on the little camp bed and touches his leg.

 

“They attacked me.” Morelli pouts and leans against Anderson. “Why am I in a camp with these people, James, eh? I am not a Nazi; Mussolini does not ask if we would like to fight you know.”

 

“I know.” Anderson traces his fingers over Morelli’s cheekbones. “They shouldn’t be here at all. This is supposed to be a camp for low risk prisoners, but there’s no room anywhere else.”

 

“If I tell the Camp Commander, would they move me to another camp, with Italians?” Morelli strokes Anderson’s hands. “I do not want to be away from you, but I can not stay in here forever. The war will be over soon and we can be together.”

 

“Roberto! If you tell the Commander then you’ll be released after the war straight into a prison cell! At best they’d send you for ‘rehabilitation’, and then deport you. The best thing is to hold on. They will get bored and find someone else to bully.”

 

Morelli unbuckles Anderson’s belt.

 

“Smith will have to rush back before the changeover. Come on, we have not got long.”

 

“Is that all you think of?” Anderson asks, with a smile.

 

“When I am near you.”

 

***

 

There is a sharp rap on the door and then it is opened. Anderson fumbles to pull up his trousers as Morelli gets up off his knees.

 

Gilmore looks at them both silently, nods once at Anderson, and then walks out of the hut.

 

***

 

When Anderson walks outside Smith is just arriving.

 

“You stay here, and you don’t move until you’re relieved by Sergeant Boyden,” Gilmore snarls. “I don’t care if Monty himself tells you otherwise!”

 

“Yes, Sergeant Major!”

 

Gilmore stalks off with Anderson hurrying after him.

 

“Sergeant Major, a word please, in the mess?” Anderson pleads.

 

Gilmore nods, and follows Anderson into the deserted mess hall.

 

“Where is everyone?” Anderson asks.

 

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” Gilmore asks, not looking at him.

 

“I can understand you having trouble raising the Colonel, but the MPs are normally quick to the scene of the crime,” Anderson says with forced jocularity. “For goodness sake, man, at least  _look_  at me, will you?”

 

Gilmore turns, and pointedly looks Anderson up and down.

 

“Is that sufficient,  _Sir_?”

 

“That’s enough,” Anderson says quietly. “If you’re going to report me for… sodomy, then you should do it, or I’m going to think that you’re trying to blackmail me.”

 

Gilmore’s face darkens.

 

“Sodomy, Sir? How about treason?”

 

“What? Wait, now I realise he’s an Italian…”

 

“He’s an Italian who’s tried it on with every soldier in the camp! Has he asked you to move him to another camp yet,  _Sir_?”

 

“Well… I…”

 

“That’s how he ended up here. He was at an Italian camp, and he persuaded an officer to have him transferred to another camp. Except that he was also ‘friendly’ with one of the guards who didn’t know about the other camp. The guard provided enough information for Morelli to make good his escape when he was being transported.”

 

Anderson licks his lips slowly.

 

“If that was true I’d have heard.”

 

“He was sent here after he escaped during transport to another camp. It’s in his records, Sir. Or did he persuade you not to look at his records while he was getting you to tell him about our military bases and campaigns?”

 

“That’s enough!” Anderson snarls.

 

“Sir!” Gilmore snaps to attention.

 

“Are you going to report me for sodomy?” Anderson asks quietly.

 

“Sir, with respect, it isn’t me you have to worry about,” Gilmore says quietly. “Morelli is a manipulator, and if he can’t use you to arrange a transfer one way, then he’ll do it another.”

 

“You seem remarkably well informed,” Anderson says coldly.

 

“Word gets around quickly, Sir.”

 

“Not around the officers.”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Sir.”

 

“Sergeant Major, do you think that I have a mental deficiency? That’s what they say now, don’t they? That’s it’s an illness and needs treatment.” Anderson pulls a small photograph of his family out of his wallet and stares at it.

 

“I’ve heard it called that,” Gilmore allows. “I couldn’t say I agree.”

 

“You’re old fashioned, are you? You consider it a perverse crime against nature?”

 

Gilmore shifts position.

 

“No Sir, I couldn’t say I believe that either.”

 

Anderson smiles slowly.

 

“Did Morelli attempt to seduce you, Sergeant Major?”

 

“He made suggestions, yes.”

 

“Why didn’t you report them?”

 

Gilmore looks him in the eye.

 

“I can’t afford that kind of scrutiny, Sir.”

 

Anderson puts the photograph away.

 

“Let me see if I follow your line of reasoning. You suspect that now I know his intentions Morelli will… what, try to blackmail me into helping him arrange an escape attempt?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“I thought he loved me,” Anderson says quietly.

 

“It’s very easy to believe something that we wish to be true.”

 

Anderson smiles, and sighs heavily.

 

“Thank you for your candour, Sergeant Major. Please accept my apologies for sending your man from his post. That’ll be all.”

 

“If you’re sure, Sir?”

 

“Yes, quite sure.”

 

***

 

“Bloody hell!” Smith chokes on his cigarette. “Are you sure?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Corporal Hollis says seriously. “I was in the infirmary when they brung him in. It was too late though.”

 

“And he’d hung hisself?”

 

“Hanged, Sarge,” Hollis corrects. “Men are hanged, meat is hung.”

 

***

 

The senior officers file out of the Colonel’s office with their heads lowered.

 

“He wants to see you now, Sergeant Major,” Captain Best says, nodding at Gilmore.

 

“Sir.”

 

Gilmore walks into the Colonel’s office, shutting the door behind him, and stands at attention in front of his desk.

 

Colonel Lawson is a sandy haired man in his forties although he looks older.

 

“At ease, Sergeant Major. Cigarette?”

 

“No thank you, Sir.”

 

“Bit early for a snifter, what. But you might need it; I do.” Lawson pours brandy into two glasses and puts them on the desk. “Have a seat.”

 

“Sir.” Gilmore sits stiffly, and looks at the glass of brandy as if it were a live scorpion.

 

“Bad news, I’m afraid. You’ve probably heard already?” Lawson looks at Gilmore from under his brows.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Lieutenant Anderson hanged himself last night.”

 

Gilmore closes his eyes briefly.

 

“I had heard some scuttlebutt about a death, but not who, or how,” Gilmore says quietly.

 

“He was a good lad.” Lawson leans back and lights a cigarette. He takes a deep drag on it and blows out the smoke slowly. “According to the duty logs you were the last to speak with him.”

 

“Am I under investigation, Sir?”

 

“You and I, Sergeant Major, we’re old hands at this. We know who to talk to for intel, and who to talk to for scuttlebutt. Now  _my_  intel is that Lieutenant Anderson was in the habit of visiting Prisoner Morelli in solitary. Last night was the first time he tried it on your watch.” Lawson takes another drag on his cigarette. “So, what was he doing that necessitated you and he having a private word in the mess hall?”

 

“Sir?”

 

“DON’T PLAY DUMB WITH ME, MAN!” Lawson roars. “I’ve got a dead twenty four year old  _boy_  who apparently killed himself!”

 

“I don’t see how I can help you with that, Sir.”

 

“What am I to tell the inquest? Not to mention his parents.” Lawson purses his lips. “Morelli is asking to see me, you know.”

 

Gilmore flinches.

 

“What’s he likely to tell me?”

 

Gilmore looks at his feet, and then up at Lawson.

 

“Sir, with respect, from my understanding of Morelli he could say anything. He’s a born liar.”

 

“Sergeant Major, meet me halfway on this please?”

 

Gilmore takes a little sip of his brandy.

 

“I suspect that Lieutenant Anderson killed himself because he believed that Morelli had used his good nature in order to plot an escape. Lieutenant Anderson was concerned that Morelli would blackmail him. The Lieutenant took the steps he thought necessary to prevent bringing dishonour to his family, or to the army.”

 

“Are you saying Anderson was a  _traitor_?” Lawson asks incredulously.

 

“No Sir!”

 

“Then what? Spit it out man, do you think Morelli will show your scruples?”

 

“I found Lieutenant Anderson and Morelli in a state of undress,” Gilmore says coldly.

 

***

 

**A Week Later**

 

Lieutenant Ashton has a window seat, and watches the rolling hills as the train chugs through the Welsh countryside.

 

The rain has finally stopped.

 

His leg aches when it rains, and sometimes when it’s cold. So, all in all, Wales is possibly not the best place for him to be.

 

A man dressed in the uniform of a RAF volunteer captain is sitting diagonally opposite him. He’s a tall, handsome, black-haired man with bright blue eyes. Earlier he had offered Ashton a piece of chocolate and smiled warmly

 

“We’re coming up to the love tunnel,” he remarks in a strong American accent, startling Ashton out of his reverie.

 

“Love tunnel?”

 

“Yeah, the locals call it that because it’s just long enough to have a bit of fun in the dark,” he says, tilting his head and appraising Ashton.

 

“Is that so?” Ashton asks softly, putting his newspaper to one side.

 

The American moves to the seat opposite Luke, locking the carriage door on his way.

 

“My name’s Harkness.”

 

“Ashton.”

 

“Any second now, Lieutenant Ashton.”

 

The train plunges into the tunnel, and the carriages are bathed in inky blackness.

 

Deft hands unbutton Ashton’s trousers and shorts. They are pushed down, and a warm hand slides between his legs.

 

“Done this before, soldier?” Harkness whispers into his ear.

 

“Nuh-huh.”  

 

“Relax, honey, and let an expert take care of you.”

 

***

 

“Excuse me? Lieutenant Ashton?”

 

Ashton turns around to the man addressing him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Corporal Hollis, Sir. I’m here to take you to the base, is this  _all_  your luggage then?”

 

Ashton raises his eyebrows at the disapproving tone.

 

“Do you have a problem with that, Corporal?”

 

“No Sir, certainly not, Lieutenant. It’s just … well, you haven’t got much stuff. Anyone’d think you weren’t planning to hang around.”

 

“Corporal, shut up and carry the bags to the car.” 

 

***

 

“ _What?”_  Gilmore snaps.

 

“In the glasshouse,” Smithy repeats. “Snotty little lieutenant got annoyed because Hollis wouldn’t shut up yacking. I mean we all know he bangs on and on, but insubordinate’s a bit much.”

 

Gilmore rubs his forehead. “All right, get back to what you’re doing.”

 

***

 

Hollis follows Gilmore obediently out of the glasshouse and over to his office.

 

“Did I ask you to engage the Lieutenant in conversation? Did I? Is that what I asked you to do, Corporal?”

 

“No Sir!” Hollis answers, getting ready to explain. “You see…”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“Yes, Sergeant Major!” 

 

“Don’t just stand there like you’re catching flies, man. Get a shift on!”

 

“Yes, Sergeant Major!” Hollis scurries off.

 

Gilmore shakes his head, and makes his way over to the mess hall. Sickly green, oddly lumpy, paint slathers the walls and even the huge misshapen radiators. A faint smell of cabbage and corned beef drifts in the air. Gilmore’s gleaming boots tap on the scrubbed tile floor as he walks past the empty tables and up to the counter. He knocks on the counter with his knuckles.

 

“Shop!”

 

A scruffy, tiny, sandy haired soldier wanders out to the counter.

 

“Good morning, Sergeant Major,” he says ingratiatingly.

 

“Corporal.”

 

“Got some bones, be able to make some soup.”

 

“Soup bones?” Gilmore asks with a frown. “Don’t muck me about, Gordon.”

 

“Sergeant, you’re breaking my heart. I’ve got five lads back here to skim off for.”

 

“Are any of them me? No? Didn’t think so. I want meat, a bit of veg, and maybe some pudding.”

 

“Alright,” Gordon says placating. “How about a nice bit of brisket left over from last night.”

 

“Meat, not just fat?”

 

“Some meat, some.” He scratches his nose. “I’ll throw in some sausages too.”

 

“Good. Potatoes and carrots?”

 

“Oh, that’s no problem. Can’t get anyone to eat vegetables,” Gordon sniffs.

 

“Any of the rice pudding left?”

 

“You’re kidding aren’t you, Sarge?” Gordon meets Gilmore’s eyes. “You’re not kidding.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be much. A couple of mouthfuls.”

 

“Sarge…”

 

“Gordon, I’m not one of your lads, and I’m sure as hell not the CO. I know how much food comes in here, and know how much goes under the counter. I’m getting sick of your excuses, especially as we both know that I ask you for a tiny fraction of what you and yours get.”

 

***

 

Gilmore makes his way through the dark forest. There are patches where the trees are less dense, and the moonlight shines down onto the courting couples. Gilmore avoids those areas, staying off the well trodden paths, and instead travels to a little copse lower down.

 

He is carrying a parcel under his arm. Thick, creamy waxed paper, tied up with string.

 

There is a derelict gamekeeper’s cottage here; it’s stone walls looted by villagers, ivy and moss growing over what remains. A boy of about nineteen, small and skinny, is sitting on a tree stump nearby. He smiles as he notices Gilmore, a bright and cheeky grin that lights up his face.

 

“Hiya!”

 

“Evening, Simon.”   

 

Simon climbs off the stump, favouring his leg.

 

They walk together deeper into the woods, through the tangled undergrowth, and into a secluded and shady spot. 

 

“Heard you got a new officer?”

 

“How do you always get the scuttlebutt so fast?” Gilmore asks.

 

“I’m very popular with soldiers,” the boy says, straight faced.

 

“You do your bit for this lad at least,” Gilmore says, leaning back against a tree bole, unbuttoning his trousers and shorts.

 

“Half and half is it?” Simon pushes down Gilmore’s trousers and shorts.

 

“I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Gilmore closes his eyes as Simon sinks to his knees.

 

***

 

“Leg hurting?” Gilmore asks, as Simon stands up and rubs his knee.

 

“It aches after a few minutes when I put weight on it. We all right lying down?” Simon takes his hand.

 

“Here?” Gilmore asks doubtfully. “There’s not much room.”

 

Simon pulls him into a clearing so densely surrounded by trees that only a glimmer of moonlight shimmers through. 

 

He starts to lie down, but Gilmore stops him and carefully puts his greatcoat on the ground first.

 

“Bit more comfy.”

 

“You’re a gent.” Simon sits down on top of the greatcoat as Craig undresses. “So what’s wrong with your new officer?” he asks, kicking off his shoes.

 

“What do you mean?” Gilmore sits down, and reaches over to unbutton Simon’s trousers.

 

“Is he injured?” Simon pushes his underwear down. “Like you and Lieutenant Anderson.”

 

“I’ve not met him yet. I didn’t know you knew Anderson.”

 

Simon pulls his top over his head and puts it neatly to one side. “I have to eat,” he says tightly.

 

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that,” Gilmore apologises. 

 

“Shame,” Simon says cheekily.

 

“You know what happened?”

 

“Heard bits of stories.” Simon lies down on his front. “You’re the only one who likes boys, but some of the others are too mashed up for the brasses in town. I get one or two of them now and then.” Simon spreads his legs. “They’re not thrilled about me, but any port in a storm.” 

 

“Not everyone is as understanding about war wounds as you are.” Gilmore fishes a little pot of Vaseline from his greatcoat pocket and puts it to one side.

 

***

 

“I’ve got something for you,” Simon says shyly as he leans back against a tree. Gilmore is by the brook, rinsing his hands.

 

“Isn’t that my line?” Gilmore hands over the parcel.

 

“What’s in here then?”

 

“Brisket, sausages, potatoes, carrots, and some rice pudding.”

 

“Honestly?” Simon grins, opening the corner of the parcel and peering inside. “Rice pudding?”

 

“Cross my heart.”

 

“My mam used to make rice pudding when I was a kid.”

 

“This is army pudding,” Gilmore says wryly. “It won’t be the same.”

 

“I hope not, her rice pudding was like cement,” Simon laughs. “School rice pudding was nice. Think it’ll be like that?”

 

“Yeah, institution food.” Gilmore rolls his eyes. “Make sure you eat the potatoes and carrots, no swapping it for sherbet dip.”

 

Simon salutes, and makes a stern face. 

 

“You doing all right for food?”

 

“I am now!” Simon sniggers.

 

“You heard anything from your mam?”

 

“Not since she took off for London.” Simon puts the parcel down and reaches into his jacket. “This is for you,” he says shyly, pulling out a rectangle wrapped in gold foil.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Chocolate.” Simon pushes it into the older man’s hand.

 

Gilmore breaks it in half, and hands half back to him. “Thanks! I haven’t had chocolate in an age.”

 

“I know. You told me. Remember when you brought the ‘chocolate’ pudding?”

 

“Made of cocoa powder and sugar,” Gilmore says, wincing. He pops a square of chocolate into his mouth.

 

“Good, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Got it from a Yank,” Simon says through a mouthful of chocolate. “My cousin in England says it’s disgusting how they come over here, and they’ve all got money, nylons, and stuff.” Simon shrugs. “Everyone knows that Tommies haven’t got anything.”

 

“Thanks a bunch.”

 

“You know what I mean.” Simon pulls a face. “We have to go on parade with brooms because they haven’t replaced the rifles that they took off us to send to the front.”

 

“There’s no shame being in the Home Guard.”

 

“You’ve obviously not seen us; I’m the youngest by sixty years. We couldn’t repel an invasion by the boy scouts.”

 

“You’d fight if you could. Anyway, I didn’t know there were any GIs stationed nearby. Where did you find this Yank?”

 

“Not a GI, a RAF volunteer. I carried his bags from the train for him.”

 

“Big tipper?”

 

“He gave me a pound!”

 

“How far did you carry his bags?” Gilmore asks, astonished.

 

“Just to the boarding house over the road. He said he’s visiting someone.” Simon tilts his head. “I know a secret.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. He told me about your new officer. They were on the train together.” 

 

“How exciting for him,” Gilmore says dryly.

 

“The Yank’s got a big mouth,” Simon says slyly. “If you know what I mean?”

 

***

 

**Morning**

 

Gilmore is crossing the courtyard when someone shouts his name. Lieutenant Ashton, red faced and narrow eyed, storms over to him.

 

“Sergeant Major Gilmore?” he snarls.

 

Gilmore takes in the shine on Ashton’s shoes, the slight suggestion of puppy fat in his face, and the way he lifts his head to seem a few inches taller.

 

“Yes Sah!” Gilmore, staring straight ahead; his gaze some six inches over Ashton’s head, rips off a textbook salute. “Good Morning, Sah!”

 

“You countermanded my direct order, Sergeant!”

 

“Begging your pardon, Lieutenant?”

 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you?” Ashton asks, his voice quavering for a moment.

 

Gilmore lowers his eyes in an exaggerated manner, scanning downwards, as if unsure where the younger man actually is.

 

“Sir?”

 

“I ordered Corporal Hollis to the glasshouse for insubordination, then you countermanded my order! Is it your intention to undermine my authority?”

 

Ashton’s shaking, Gilmore realises. His gloved fists clenched tight, and a muscle jumping in his cheek. 

 

“No. Sir. With respect, discipline of the NCOs is  _my_  responsibility,” Gilmore says flatly. “Corporal Hollis has a chronic case of verbal diarrhoea. I cancelled his weekend pass in line with the Camp Commander’s standing orders on discipline.”

 

“There are standing orders for discipline of NCOs and lower ranks?” Ashton asks quietly.

 

“Yessir! Perks and privileges denied, extra duty, in extreme cases laps around the camp in full kit.”

 

“Have a big discipline problem, do you?” Ashton recovers a little of his bravado.

 

“No,” Gilmore says flatly.

 

“In future, Sergeant Major, do not countermand my orders.”

 

***

 

“Lieutenant Ashton, welcome to the camp,” Lawson says, offering his hand.

 

“Sir.” Ashton shakes his hand and nods politely. At Lawson’s gesture, Ashton sits down.

 

“I’ve assigned Lieutenant Garfield to show you around for a few days until you find your feet.” Lawson looks over his glasses at the younger man. “A POW camp is a radically different proposition to fighting or training recruits. That doesn’t mean it’s a soft option.”

 

“No, Sir,” Ashton says with a nod.

 

“The prisoners are the obvious problem. We’ve had several escape attempts as well as violence between pro and anti Nazi factions.”

 

“There are anti-Nazi German soldiers, Sir?”

 

“They’re soldiers. They fight because they’re ordered too. Unfortunately, there  _are_  fanatics, and there are sometimes clashes. We’ve had one death recently.”

 

“I understood that the lieutenant killed himself?” Ashton asks cautiously.

 

“That wasn’t actually what I was referring to,” Lawson says with a sigh. “We had a prisoner die after being attacked by other prisoners. Officially he had a heart attack, but… well.”

 

“Oh, I see.” 

 

“Since we’re a POW camp and not a front-line combat unit, Sergeant Major Gilmore is in charge of discipline of the privates and the NCOs. We have standard orders covering discipline so that there are no clashes.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Ashton says, embarrassed.

 

“Because of our vicinity to Bridgend there can be a lot of contact with civilians, and we depend on their goodwill. We insist on a higher level of discipline being maintained when on a pass or liberty.”

 

“Sir.”

 

“Off the record, son, Gilmore is probably the one NCO you absolutely  _must_  be on good terms with. Any favours that you need, any of the little luxuries that you can’t get through official channels, they all go through lower ranks and the NCOs. If you annoy Gilmore enough, he can have a little word with the right people, Lieutenant, and suddenly you’ll find yourself without a friend or favour in the world.”

 

“Sir,” Ashton says with a nod.

 

“This isn’t a combat situation. You don’t have to stamp your mark hard in order to command them in to battle; you have to earn the respect of the NCOs in order to lead.”

 

***

 

“Good lord, can’t we get them to  _shut up_?” Ashton mutters.

 

“They sing for bleeding hours,” Garfield sighs. “Used to be alright when the camp first opened; it was all the rank and file. They weren’t any hassle, most of them were just happy to be out of the war. Then the brass decided that the camp was too comfortable for the rank and file so they moved in the officers. Dyed in the wool Nazis the lot of them.”

 

“All Germans?”

 

“Yeah, we had a few Italians, but they got moved to another camp.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They kept fighting,” Garfield says with a shrug.

 

“With the Germans? Aren’t they supposed to be allies?”

 

“They fought with the Jerries, with each other. It’s being cooped up with not much to do. When we were stuck out in the desert, it was the same.” Garfield slurps his tea. “You seen much action?”

 

“No, got injured at Dunkirk and was in dock until I got sent here.”

 

“Sounds nasty. Bullet?”

 

“Yeah, I got caught in a strafing run. One in the knee.” Ashton stretches his leg out unthinkingly and rotates his foot. “It was supposed to be my first tour of duty as well.” He looks across at the other man. “You?”

 

“I’m a career soldier.” Garfield sighs and shrugs. “Leastways I was until a mortar went off next to me.”

 

Ashton winces sympathetically.

 

Garfield taps his ear.

 

“Now if you want me to hear what you’re saying then you have to stand on this side.”

 

“You can’t hear anything?”

 

“Oh yeah, I can hear ruddy bells ringing all the damn time,” he sighs.

 

***

 

“Wot’re they doing?” Smithy wonders, looking across the yard.

 

Gilmore squints across over to where a group of prisoners cluster by the fence. “I don’t know. They look like they’re staring at the chap on the tractor. There’s no land girls working on that farm, is there?”

 

“No, Sergeant Major.” Smithy smirks at Gilmore. “Don’t reckon they’d be after the farmer either. Great fat, ugly lump.”

 

“No accounting for taste. Still, you report it, and I’ll go and have a look.”

 

“Right you are.”

 

Gilmore walks across the yard, aware of the glances he’s attracting, and the hushed whispers. As he approaches the group by the fence, a young German soldier springs out in front of him.

 

“Sergeant Gilmore! The day is most beautiful, is it not?”

 

“I hadn’t noticed, Corporal Glick,” Gilmore answers breezily, marching forward and forcing the young man to walk backwards quickly.

 

“No? So it is not true that the English talk of nothing  _but_  the weather?”

 

“The English, perhaps,” Gilmore says crisply, undeterred from his course. “But  _I_  am Welsh, not English.”

 

“Indeed! This is your country, is it not? So much rain, and so often.”

 

Gilmore raises an eyebrow as he reaches the fence, and the assembled prisoners scatter. 

 

“Corporal Glick,” Gilmore says sharply as the young man tries to walk off. “Not so fast, please.”

 

***

 

“So they were just standing about.” Ashton folds his arms. “Talking isn’t evidence that they’re up to anything.”

 

“No, Sir, it’s not. I am concerned that Corporal Glick did appear to be trying to distract me from something.”

 

“Well, have someone check the bars in the windows. Isn’t that how the last two prisoners escaped?”

 

“I’ve got a couple of the lads looking at it now.”

 

Ashton nods, and shuffles a few of the papers on the desk. “Okay, well, good.”

 

“Sir, perhaps it might be prudent for full lock down and search of the camp?” Gilmore prompts.

 

“Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you, to get the new officer to lock down the camp on his very first shift as officer of the day?”

 

“Sir…”

 

“Shut up!” Ashton jumps to his feet, his face red, and his jaw clenched.

 

Gilmore’s mouth snaps shut, and he straightens up a little more.

 

“I’m the officer here, not you! No lock down, I’m not going to say it again. Now get out.”

 

“Sir!” Gilmore snaps off a sharp salute, spins around, and marches out of the office.

 

***

 

“Little bleeder,” Smithy mutters as he takes a deep drag on his cigarette. “Don’t know where they get off thinking that they know better than us. We deal with the prisoners day in and day out, and he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.”

 

Gilmore shakes his head in mild reproof, and takes a sip of his coffee. “He thinks he has to show us that he’s the boss.” He smiles ruefully at Smithy. “He thinks he has to show  _me_ who the boss is.”

 

“Why do all new officers want to get into a pissing contest with the senior NCO?”

 

“I’m blowed if I know,” Gilmore says, shaking his head. “Did you check the bars in the huts?”

 

“Yeah, I checked all the huts myself.”

 

“Anything?”

 

“Hut nine seemed twitchy, but I couldn’t find anything.” Smithy takes another drag on his cigarette. “What do you want me to do?”

 

“Keep an eye on them. I know they’re up to something, but we’ll have to wait and see what.”

 

“They’re always up to something.”

 

***

 

Claws tap along the footpath and the hot, wet breaths hang in the air. The sound of the dogs whining outside the window jolts Ashton out of his restless sleep. He gets up, and looks out across the compound as the clouds scud across the night sky. The guards pass his window walking the drooling dogs on their leashes.

 

In the adjacent field a large flat stone is very slowly slid aside from underneath.

 

***

 

“Looks like food poisoning,” the doctor says crisply. “We’ll have to take him to sickbay.”

 

Boulton groans piteously and rolls around on the bed.

 

“Oh wonderful, he’s the duty sergeant!” Lieutenant Jarvis says irately. “It’s not enough that you’ve got half a dozen guards in there already.”

 

The doctor rolls his eyes, and waves a hand at the orderly.

 

“What am I supposed to do?” Jarvis demands.

 

“Stop poisoning your guards?”

 

***

 

Gilmore finishes his watery coffee, and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.

 

“Sorry about this, Sergeant Major,” Jarvis says with a shrug. “But what can I do?”

 

“I understand, Sir.” Gilmore gets to his feet, and pushes his fingers through his unruly hair. “I’ll do a tour of the perimeter and see what the situation is.”

 

Jarvis nods distractedly and wanders off. Gilmore straightens his uniform and goes out into the cold night.

 

A guard dog whines a welcome at him and sniffs at his hand.

 

“You’re supposed to keep them hungry and mean,” he says mildly.

 

“They are ‘ungry,” the guard protests sheepishly. “I starve them during the day, Sarge.”

 

“Of course you do.”

 

“Honest!”

 

“Just make sure they won’t play fetch with any escaped prisoners, okay, Private Cato?”

 

“Yes, Sarge.”

 

Gilmore walks along the fence around the perimeter of the building until he reaches the adjacent farm. He reaches for his gun as he spots the flash of dark blue running towards him.

 

A tall man in the blue of a RAF volunteer sprints across the field towards the fence. Gilmore weighs the gun in his hand as the man stops on the other side of the fence, panting, and clutching his side.

 

“Identify yourself,” Gilmore orders, pointing the gun at him.

 

“You’re Sergeant Major Gilmore, right?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Lowering the gun would be a good start,” he says with a roughish smile.

 

“You have exactly fifteen seconds before I shoot you.”

 

“My name’s Harkness, I’m boarding in the village.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Already knew that, huh?”

 

“There aren’t many Yanks hereabouts, and the ones in Bridgend are GIs, not volunteer flyboys.”

 

“Simon sent me; he was on his way home when he saw a bunch of your prisoners in the woods.”

 

“What?” Gilmore’s gun drops.

 

“This is kosher, you have my word. Simon thought I’d get here a lot faster than he would, and besides if he was spotted it’d look bad for you.”

 

“Kosher?” Gilmore echoes.

 

“What? Damn parochial Brits,” Harkness mutters. “Look, that doesn’t matter. A bunch of your prisoners are gone. You need to raise the alarm. Simon thought it’d look better if you discovered the escape. Not to mention he’d struggle to come up with a good excuse for being in the woods then. So you go and discover they’re missing, and raise the alarm. They can’t have gotten that far.”

 

***

 

Ashton is bleary eyed with tiredness as he stares blankly at the maps spread over the table.

 

“We don’t have an exact time for the break out, but it’s a maximum of four hours ago,” Lawson explains.

 

The Police Superintendent silently rubs his brow.

 

“The whole of hut nine are gone, that must have happened sometime after lights out. The other prisoners seem to have been kept in the dark about it. We’ve found a tunnel from hut nine leading to the field outside which fits in with the suspicious behaviour that two of the guards observed.”

 

“How many prisoners?” the Chief Inspector asks.

 

“Twenty eight, Sir,” Gilmore says dryly.

 

“Road blocks have been erected. However, given the head start they have and the local geography, they are likely to be of limited use,” the Superintendent says thoughtfully and looks at Gilmore. “It’s fortunate that you decided to do a spot check of the huts.”

 

“Sir.”

 

The Chief Inspector is shaking his head.

 

“They won’t be on the roads; they’ll be going through the woods, and then sticking to fields and farmland. Some of them may have headed to the coast to try for France.”

 

“That’d be rather risky from here, don’t you think, Dearheart?”

 

Ashton’s eyes bug out.

 

“It’s a tempting option compared to getting to London and stealing a plane or boat there.”

 

“Chief Inspector Dearheart was a prisoner of war during the Great War,” Lawson says to Ashton.

 

“If they went through the woods we’d have no way of knowing,” the Superintendent sighs.

 

Dearheart gives a little cough.

 

“Oh… yes, hmm. Might be worth asking the lad, but don’t scare him.”

 

“Sir.”

 

***

 

The road block is raised, and the two police officers wave the car through. Once they clear the block, the car accelerates down the road, throwing Ashton back in his seat.

 

“Sorry, Sir,” Gilmore says sweetly.

 

“What was that about some lad in the woods?”

 

“Wouldn’t know, Sir,” Gilmore says, flinching.

 

Ashton stares out of the passenger window as the car speeds through the small, winding roads. Branches slap at the glass and scatter leaves and fat raindrops.

 

“I can’t see how what I’m supposed to do in London,” Ashton mutters quietly. He glances at Gilmore and rolls his eyes. “Though I suppose if we want to drive them to suicide you might be useful.”

 

“You what?” Gilmore asks, startled.

 

Ashton laughs cynically and shakes his head.

 

“Nothing, Sergeant Major, keep your eyes on the road.”

 

***

 

The inelegantly skewed car is at the side of the road; the burst tyre spilling shredded rubber into the mud. Gilmore, dressed in his shirtsleeves, rolls the spare wheel around from the boot.

 

Ashton kicks a pebble into a puddle. The reflected moonlight is strange and fractured as the ripples die away. Pale light shines on his face, and on Gilmore’s bare arms, casting deep pools of shadow. 

 

“Shame we can’t risk putting the headlights on,” Ashton shrugs.

 

“Nearly done now.”

 

Ashton digs his toe into the ground. The muscles in Gilmore’s arms bunch and relax rhythmically as he works.

 

It isn’t until Gilmore finishes that Ashton realises he has been holding his breath.

 

***

 

“Can’t you go any faster?”

 

“I’m doing twenty miles an hour as it is, Sir!”

 

“It’s going to take us forever,” Ashton complains.

 

“About eight hours,” Gilmore answers, yawning.

 

“How much sleep have you had?”

 

“About two hours.”

 

Ashton squints at his watch. “I can’t see what time it is. It must be the early hours of the morning. We should pull over or something.”

 

Gilmore looks around at the countryside. Impenetrable hedgerows hem them in on either side.

 

“There was a sign for a farm back there. Perhaps they’ll let us sleep for a few hours. Farmers get up at the crack of dawn.”

 

The farm is a half mile down a narrow and twisting dirt path. The swaying wheat in the fields distracts Gilmore briefly from the young man glowering in the passenger seat. 

 

***

 

Ashton stands by the closed barn door, and is already shaking his head when he turns to Gilmore.

 

“I am not sleeping in  _hay_!”

 

Gilmore is already pulling off his jacket and putting it to one side.

 

“As you like, Sir. But I’ve slept in barns, and I’ve slept in cars.” Gilmore unbuttons his braces. “I’m not rushing out there to sleep in the back of the car.”

 

Ashton fidgets, pulling at the fingers of his gloves. “I want us to be clear, Sergeant Major,” he stumbles.

 

Gilmore unlaces his boots and puts them to the side. “A frank and honest conversation with no witnesses around?”

 

“I’ve heard about you,” Ashton spits out. “We’ve all heard about what you did to Anderson. You’re not doing the same to me.”

 

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

 

“Oh yeah, right! He was fine when you walked in, and when you left he was dead. You either killed him, or drove him to kill himself.”

 

Gilmore shakes his head and sits down on the hay. “That’s what you’ve been told, is it? It’s not true.”

 

“The duty log says different.”

 

“Bullshit,” Gilmore says quietly, looking Ashton in the eye. “I spoke to Anderson in the mess, I left. He was alive when I left. He was seen by duty guards walking from the mess to his quarters, the duty log will confirm that, and his body was found in his quarters later.”

 

“Logs can be faked.”

 

“True,” Gilmore admits. “But I had no reason to alter the log, or to kill him.” He stretches his arms out. “I barely knew him, but I had no beef with him. He was a decent enough young lad if a bit naïve about people.”

 

“What do you mean? Naïve about people.” Ashton asks suspiciously.

 

“James Anderson is dead; don’t you think his family have suffered enough without me breaking his confidences?”

 

“Why should I believe you?” 

 

“Believe what you like,” Gilmore says, making himself comfortable on the hay. “I don’t owe you an explanation.  _Sir_.”

 

***

 

Dust motes dance and glisten in a slice of early morning sunshine.

 

Gilmore lies for a couple of seconds without moving, just enjoying the sweet smell of the hay and the pleasant farmyard sounds. A less expected sound is the snuffling of little snores from the back of the barn.

 

Ashton has squirreled himself into a corner, wedged in tight with his back to the wall. His face is relaxed as he sleeps; his mouth open a little, and his eyelashes dark against the cream of his skin.

 

He shifts in his sleep and his leg stays outstretched stiffly, catching against the wall. His face twists in pain and he moans quietly. Gilmore waits a moment to see if the sleeping man can free his leg, but instead his moans become louder and more painful. Gilmore steps over Ashton, and very gently frees his leg.

 

Ashton opens his eyes and licks his lips slowly. He sits up carefully and rubs his leg.

 

“What were you just doing?”

 

“Your leg was caught, you were in pain,” Gilmore says stiffly.

 

“Oh.” Ashton looks at his shoes. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s ah, it’s dawn, Sir.”

 

“Yes, yes,” he says, getting to his feet slowly. Gilmore winces as the younger man’s leg gives way and he falls against the wall. “Stupid gammy leg.” Ashton mutters, giving it a rub. He forces himself to his feet and limps to the door.

 

***

 

The trees flash past the window as the car scoots along the coast road.

 

“Any idea when we’ll get to HQ?” Ashton asks.

 

“Rough estimate of nine am I’d say, Sir.”

 

“We saved a lot of time driving down then. They said the first train wasn’t leaving until eight forty-five.”

 

“Yes, Sir, might even be able to scrounge some breakfast.”

 

“You seem a good deal more agreeable this morning,” Ashton says, watching him.

 

“I was tired, Sir, and sorely tried.” Gilmore raises his eyebrows. “As any man, I act as I’m treated.”

 

“You can’t mean me,” Ashton says sweetly. “I’m an officer, the sun shines out of my backside and my farts smell of roses. I thought everyone knew that?”

 

Gilmore continues to look straight ahead, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard that said,” he agrees.

 

Ashton fiddles with his gloves. “Thank you for not telling Colonel Lawson that I refused to lock down the camp,” he says eventually.

 

“Nobody likes a story teller,” Gilmore mutters, embarrassed. “Besides, there’s no knowing that a lock down would’ve made any difference.”

 

“Consider my lesson well learnt,” Ashton says quietly. “I will not disregard your advice again.”

 

***

 

The heat in London bounces and reflects off red bricks and cool stones, baking the air slowly. The Thames is high, and its stench pervades the city.

 

Gilmore feels sticky, grubby, and gritty as he follows Ashton into HQ carrying a box of files and photographs. An elderly, heavyset General with a bushy moustache and hard blue eyes returns their salutes, and waves a hand at Gilmore.

 

“You can put that down on the sideboard. If you go down into the kitchen then cook will make you a cup of tea and something to eat.”

 

Ashton flinches, but Gilmore salutes sharply.

 

“Yes Sir, thank you very much, Sir.”

 

“You’ll be called when you’re needed.”

 

Gilmore takes his leave, and quickly finds a red-faced and sweating boot boy trying to open the windows in the parlour.

 

“Morning.”

 

“Alright?” the young man puffs, taking note of Gilmore’s rank. “You want the kitchen?”

 

“I do at that.”

 

“I’ll show you. I’m Harry.”

 

“Gilmore.”

 

They walk through the clean and bright corridor and down a set of dingy stairs. Damp, cracked plaster is blooming on the walls. The mustard coloured carpet is worn through to the backing, and there are patches of black mould.  

 

The kitchen, at the back of a long and narrow corridor, is blessedly cool. Maids are washing the breakfast things, overseen by the cook.

 

“Mrs Gold, this is Sergeant Major Gilmore,” Harry says in a mockingly formal voice.

 

“Watch yer cheek,” Mrs Gold says, slapping him around the back of the head and nearly knocking off his glasses. She looks Gilmore up and down, and smiles like a shark. “You look like a man in need of a cuppa and some breakfast.”

 

“It’s true I’ve had neither this morning, Ma’am,” Gilmore says politely.

 

“Well sit yourself down, Sunshine. Laura! Brew up some tea for the Sergeant. Millie, get out the eggs and bacon.” She looks at Gilmore again. “You’ve come down from Wales with a young officer?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

“Harry, take up a cup of tea, a couple pieces of bread, and some margarine to the officer.”

 

“What’ve you driven down from Wales for?” Harry asks.

 

Mrs Gold cuffs his ear. “Don’t yer be sticking your nose in where it don’t belong! Now take that and bugger off to the toffs.”

 

“Yes, Mrs Gold,” Harry says in a sing-song voice, ducking out of the way and escaping with the tray.

 

She puts the tea things on the table, and sits opposite Gilmore.

 

“So, what the hell did you drive down all the way to London for?”

 

***

 

Ashton swallows a mouthful of the scalding hot tea, and chews gamely at the stale bread.

 

“I’ll be honest with you, Ashton, there’s a reason I had Lawson send you down here. You’re the new lad at the camp. You’ve an outsider’s perspective. Do things there seem… right?”

 

“Sir? There have been escapes from other camps. I haven’t been at the camp very long, but it seemed like the standard precautions were being followed.”

 

“What about the officers?”

 

“What about them?” Ashton asks uncertainly.

 

“I’ve heard some rumours, but nothing that I can substantiate.” Bush drums his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Some very disturbing stories involving your predecessor.”

 

“The army runs on rumours and gossip, Sir,” Ashton says uncomfortably.

 

“True, that’s why I can’t take any action without confirmation.” Bush leans forward in his chair. “That’s where you come in.”

 

“Me, Sir?”

 

“When you return to the camp tomorrow I’d like you to try and discreetly find out how much truth there is in the rumours. If there is something badly wrong there, I’d like you to find out and report back to me.”

 

“What kind of rumours, Sir?” Ashton asks.

 

“That Anderson was caught buggering a POW, and had been planning to help his escape. If it’s true then maybe the Jerries who escaped managed to make use of the help Anderson provided.”

 

“That’s quite a charge against a man who can’t defend himself. Surely Colonel Lawson wouldn’t tolerate it.”

 

“Officially of course the line is that it won’t be tolerated, but what really happens is that people say ‘there’s a war on; we might all die tomorrow, live and let live. Well, if it’s true then Anderson is absolute proof of  _why_  we can’t condone these people,  _least_  of all in the army. They’re a threat to our entire way of life.”

 

“Sir, surely the Nazis are the biggest threat we face,” Ashton protests.

 

“It’s easy to think these people are harmless, but they have no moral fibre, no backbone. They’re at risk of blackmail and goodness knows what else.”

 

Ashton grinds his teeth, and almost chokes on his bread.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Can I trust you to ask around, Lieutenant? If  _that’s_  the kind of thing that the officers are getting up to, then what else are they doing?”

 

“I’ll certainly try.”

 

“The story I hear is that the NCO that caught them at it didn’t arrest him. Instead, he let Anderson go off and kill himself. I’d hate to think that an NCO would be so stupid, certainly the only good one is a dead one, but we need to make an example of one of these people.”

 

***

 

“Did you meet many foreign girls when you were abroad?” a pouting blonde maid asks, fluttering her eyelashes.

 

“No Miss, I didn’t meet any girls at all,” Gilmore says politely.

 

“That what he tells us,” the elderly butler sniggers, waggling his eyebrows.

 

“We were behind enemy lines. The only foreigners I met were shooting at us.”

 

“What about resistance fighters?” the footman asks.

 

“I never met any, not to talk to. Most of the time your resistance was a couple of kids with a gun their granddad used in the Great War. They shoot at anyone in a uniform they don’t recognise, including us. Even if they didn’t, most of us don’t speak a word of the lingo. The officers might be able to gabble a bit of French or German, but nothin’ past their name and age.”

 

“There are lots of foreign officers in the city,” the pouting blonde maid sighs. “They’re very handsome.”

 

“That’s not very patriotic!” the footman scolds.

 

“Kerry, none of that!” Mrs Gold snaps.

 

“Yes, Mrs Gold.” 

 

There is a polite tap at the door and one of the maids opens it.

 

“It’s Constable Filch.”

 

“Good morning, all,” the Constable says brightly. He purses his lips as he notices Gilmore. “Got a visitor?”

 

“This is Sergeant Major Gilmore,” the butler explains. “Sergeant Gilmore, Constable Filch.”

 

“Constable.”

 

“Sergeant,” Filch nods, and then turns to Mrs Gold. “Any chance of a bit of breakfast? A bit of bacon would just hit the spot.”

 

“Sorry, Constable, the Sergeant’s had it all.”

 

***

 

Ashton mooches around to the back of the building, and takes a small flask out of his pocket. He stands in the lee of a wall, and takes a sip of whiskey. He stares through the kitchen window; he can see Gilmore sitting at the kitchen table playing cards with the butler, footman, and a valet. The maids are whispering and giggling together in a corner of the room. Gilmore is bareheaded, his dark hair tousled and just brushing the top of his ears. He is laughing at some joke of the butler’s, smirking as he makes a vague gesture that makes the maids redden, and the policeman cluck.

 

Ashton gulps down his whiskey, and then walks back around to the front of the house.

 

***

 

“I’m surprised that you soldier boys can sit around playing cards.”

 

“Why’s that?” Gilmore asks politely.

 

“A bunch of Jerries from a Taffy prison camp escaped last night,” Filch says smugly.

 

“Where’d you ‘ear that?” Mrs Gold asks.

 

“We had a wire through. Some little toffee nose is driving down to coordinate the search.”

 

“We’ll all be ravished in our beds!” Kerry squeals excitedly.

 

“Go to yer room!”

 

“Yes, Mrs Gold,” Kerry mutters.

 

“Sergeant, you’ll be in the know. Is it true?”

 

“Are you calling me a liar?” Filch demands.

 

“Some prisoners have been reported missing,” Gilmore says quickly.

 

“They’re not admitting it, but I heard that the prisoners killed three guards, and stole a tank!” Filch crows.

 

Every face turns to Gilmore expectantly.

 

“That’s not true,” he says calmly, taking a card from the deck.

 

“They’re dangerous!”

 

“All escaped prisoners are considered dangerous; there is a war on after all.” He wags a finger at Filch. “You’re a public servant, you should know better than to spread rumours and gossip.”

 

“Thank you for your  _concern_ , Sergeant,” the Constable says through gritted teeth.

 

***

 

“That’s thirteen prisoners recaptured,” Ashton is saying when Gilmore walks into the room. 

 

“If this chap was murdered by a prisoner then we’ll never hear the end of it.”

 

Gilmore salutes the two men and stands at attention.

 

“At ease, Sergeant Major.” General Bush waves a hand. “There’s been a report of one of the prisoners murdering a butcher. Get down there, liaise with the police, and offer them any assistance.”

 

“Sir!” Gilmore salutes.

 

“Perhaps it would be better if I went with the Sergeant?” Ashton says quickly.

 

Gilmore bridles, but doesn’t speak.

 

“Really? Well, that would impress them that we’re taking it seriously. Off you both go then.”

 

***

 

“I don’t understand you,” Ashton says as Gilmore drives them towards the other side of London.

 

“Sir?”

 

“You seemed quite happy to be sent to the kitchen like a common servant.”

 

“I’m an NCO, Sir,” Gilmore says coolly. “I wouldn’t expect to be received in the drawing room with the officers and gentleman. However, I can normally be trusted to complete fairly simple tasks without an officer looking over my shoulder.”

 

“I just spent two hours being lectured on how homosexuals lack ‘backbone’ and ‘moral fibre’,” Ashton says flatly. “I needed to be somewhere else. Don’t take it as a slight.”

 

“Sir.” Gilmore squares his shoulders. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

 

“The General seems to think the prisoners had help escaping.”

 

“They had no civilian clothes, no transport, and no papers. I hope a guard of mine would’ve been more efficient in his assistance.”

 

“This isn’t a joke,” Ashton says quietly. “Look, can you park the car?”

 

Gilmore finds a space and parks the car.

 

“Sir, it’s true that guards at POW camps have been caught providing luxury items for money. I doubt if any guard, let alone one of ours, would aid an escape though. I also doubt any prisoner would have the funds to pay for something like that.”

 

Ashton chews his lower lip. “The General claims that Anderson was having relations with a POW, he thinks Anderson was trying to help this POW escape.”

 

“Lieutenant Anderson was  _not_  a traitor, Sir,” Gilmore says sharply. “He was stupid; no, that’s not fair, he was an innocent, and didn’t realise when he was being manipulated. He _wouldn’t_  have assisted in an escape.”

 

“So the General was right. Anderson was having relations with a POW?”

 

Gilmore bites the inside of his cheek, and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Lieutenant Anderson is dead, his family are grieving, and what good does it do to drag this all up?”

 

“General Bush isn’t about to let it lie,” Ashton says gently. “He wants me to find information to reveal Anderson as homosexual, and have him posthumously charged as a traitor. I need to know all the facts for myself either to clear him, or expose him.”

 

“Again,” Gilmore says flatly. “What good would it do to drag it up? The Andersons have lost their son, been tormented by scurrilous whispers, and been chased from polite society. All that based on nothing more than a  _suggestion_.” 

 

“Listen to me, Sergeant, it’s obvious that you honestly believe Anderson wasn’t a traitor, but I never met the man. Do you understand that the more you refuse to answer, the guiltier Lieutenant Anderson appears?”

 

Gilmore purses his lips, and then looks at Ashton. “Sir, with respect, if you repeat this I will deny it absolutely.”

 

“I understand, I won’t repeat it.”

 

“There was a POW called Morelli. He was handsome, plausible, and charming when he wanted. He was also rabidly determined to escape and return to Italy. His plan was to ‘befriend’ an officer and convince them to have him moved to another camp; on the journey, he would have made good his escape. He’d escaped before, but had been quickly recaptured. I knew that, but Lieutenant Anderson didn’t.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

 

“I didn’t know there was a reason too. Morelli was in and out of solitary confinement for fighting over a period of months. Lieutenant Anderson was apparently in the habit of visiting him there and having the guard leave. The night of his death was the first time it had happened on my watch. I wasn’t happy at his ordering the guard away from his post, so I went to solitary confinement to… express my displeasure.”  

 

“And you caught them?”

 

“Yes. Smith resumed his guard duties, and I left. Anderson ran after me and asked to speak privately in the mess. I told the Lieutenant what I knew of Morelli and that he was the problem, not me.”

 

“Blackmail?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did Anderson believe that?” Ashton asks.

 

“I think so, yes, I’m fairly sure.”

 

“And you left him  _alone_? You must have thought he might end his life.”

 

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There were other options,” Gilmore says stiffly.

 

“Like deserting? Is that what you would do at the mercy of a blackmailer?”

 

“If Anderson had faced him down, refused the allegations, he could have ridden out the storm. There was no evidence, just the word of a POW against a loyal officer.”

 

“But you were an eyewitness.”

 

“I think, I hope, that he knew I would back him up,” Gilmore answers.

 

“Would you?” Ashton asks quietly. “Why?”

 

“Wouldn’t you?” Gilmore raises his eyebrows. “Sir?”

 

“I don’t know,” he stutters. “We have a duty of loyalty beyond our fellow officers, a duty to the service and to the law.”

 

“Law and justice are not the same. Law is nothing more than governments using a sledgehammer to enforce their own narrow morality. Governments change, laws will change too.”

 

“And duty to the service?” Ashton asks.

 

“If I do a thing then I do it to the best of my ability, but right and wrong are more important than duty. If duty says you must do something you know is wrong, then you have a hard choice. For me, I’d rather follow my conscience and live with the consequences, head held up.”

 

“How would hiding a homosexual be the right thing to do?”

 

“If exposure would do more harm then good. For instance, if I went to the military police and told them that I had it on good authority that an officer at the camp was sucked off by an American RAF captain, what good would it do?”

 

Ashton stares at him, the blood draining from his face. “Who… who would say that?”

 

“A friend of mine, a lad, who’s mother ran off to London taking his ration book with her. Lonely men, appreciative for an affectionate and understanding young man, supply him with food.”

 

“I… I don’t know him.”

 

“No, Sir,” Gilmore says gently. “But he knows your captain. From what I hear the captain is providing him with some affection and understanding of his own.”

 

“What are you going to do?” Ashton whispers.

 

“ _Nothing_ ,” he promises. “Why would I? What good would it do? But mind what’s said about glasshouses and stones. A little understanding makes the world a nicer, kinder place.” He looks at his watch, and shakes his head. “We ought to be going, or we’ll be late.”

 

“I think I would have done as Anderson did. My grandfather fought under ‘Fighting Mac’. Gossip and innuendo were enough to drive  _him_  to it, and he was a much stronger man than me.”

 

“But Fighting Mac had a myriad of people whispering, and the court martial was the nail in the coffin. Morelli would be a lot easier to deal with.”

 

“Oh?” Ashton smiles slightly. “What would be your scheme?”

 

“See the witness right to ensure his silence, and then kill Morelli,” Gilmore says sweetly.

 

“You’re no murderer.”

 

“Have you changed your opinion of me, Sir?” Gilmore asks.

 

“I listened to gossip, fatal mistake.”

 

***

 

The neatly attired detective shakes his head.

 

“Sorry, lads, but you’ve had a wasted journey. Originally, it was suggested that one of your prisoners might be responsible for this murder. Turned out to be the wife and her lover, and when they heard about your escapees, they jumped at the chance.”

 

Ashton squares his shoulders. “The escape is public knowledge?”

 

The Detective Superintendent smiles slightly. “Almost thirty German POWs, in prison uniform, roaming about the countryside don’t exactly blend in.” 

 

A blonde woman in a driver’s uniform taps politely on the door.

 

“Yes, Sam?”

 

“Sorry, Sir, got a message that another three of the escaped prisoners have been rounded up.” She flashes a speculative smile at Gilmore.

 

“That’s sixteen recaptured then,” Ashton says, biting his lip. “How many left?” he asks Gilmore sheepishly.

 

“Twelve,” Gilmore says sotto voce.

 

“Perhaps the Sergeant Major and I can arrange to transfer the prisoners to the POW camp, while the Lieutenant contacts HQ and the camp,” Sam suggests brightly.

 

Ashton visibly stiffens. “I don’t know how it works in the police force, but in the army,  _drivers_  don’t issue orders to senior officers.”

 

“I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean…”

 

“I’m afraid that Sam is sometimes a little enthusiastic in her attempts to help,” the detective says soothingly.

 

“Sergeant Major, please inform HQ and the camp that three prisoners have been recaptured,” Ashton says coldly.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Gilmore says with a sharp salute.

 

“You can find a telephone at the front desk,” the detective says helpfully.

 

***

 

Gilmore drives back to HQ, eyes fixed on the road. Ashton is by turns staring out of the window, and looking surreptitiously at the man next to him.

 

“Just say it,” he says eventually.

 

“Sir?”

 

“That I went to liaise with them, and I ended up yelling at that girl.”

 

“I don’t recall any raised voices, Sir.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“She was a little pushy,” Gilmore allows.

 

“There was a time when nice girls didn’t set their caps at every passing soldier,” Ashton mutters.

 

“Well, there is a war on.”

 

***

 

Gilmore follows the butler up the cramped and draughty stairway into the attic rooms. Shards of lamplight coming through the patina of grease on the tiny windows catch at the antique cobwebs.

 

“We’ve put a cot for you in Thomas’s room,” the butler announces.

 

Gilmore looks at him blankly.

 

“That’s the footman.”

 

“Right.”

 

“I hope you’re a heavy sleeper, we have to be up at five to sort out breakfast for them upstairs,” he sniffs.

 

“Fine with me, at least this morning I don’t have to be at my post at six,” Gilmore answers. 

 

“Don’t tell me you don’t love marching up and down in your uniform.”

 

“There’s not so much marching at a prison camp.”

 

“Especially one with no prisoners,” the butler smirks. “This is Thomas’s room.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

***

 

Ashton salutes the General and climbs into the car. Through the back window, he can see Gilmore packing a large hamper into the boot of the car. Gilmore closes the boot, gets into the car and starts the engine.

 

“Did you sleep well, Sir?”

 

“Very well. Did you?”

 

“Once Thomas and Kerry went to sleep,” Gilmore says wryly.

 

“Excuse me?” Ashton asks curiously.

 

“Thomas the valet sneaked Kerry the maid into the room. It’s quite difficult to sleep through.”

 

“Why didn’t he take her to his own room?” Ashton asks blankly.

 

“I was in his room, Sir. They put me on a camp bed.”

 

“What about her room?”

 

“Male servants sleep in one corridor, and female in another. The cook, Mrs Gold, is very strict about there being no fraternisation. The butler is not.”

 

Ashton looks mildly revolted, and gazes out of the window.

 

***

 

The Messerschmitt is running dangerously low on fuel and is completely, hopelessly, lost. Returning from a dawn bombing mission the thick, creeping fog ensnared it. Disoriented and adrift the plane reeled back across Cambridge and Birmingham. Chased into Wales by a pack of Spitfires snarling at its heels, the plane heads for the only target in sight for the last of its bombs; a small town at the end of a country road.

 

Ashton ducks involuntarily as the Messerschmitt, coughing and spluttering, passes over the car. “That sounded right overhead!”

 

Gilmore drags the car over to the side of the road and up into the woodland. The two men watch the Spitfires chasing after the German plane dragging and rolling about the sky like a wounded animal.

 

“Since when did the Germans bomb during the day?” Ashton wonders. “And never one plane by itself.”

 

“It’s off-course, it must be. Not even the Luftwaffe considers woods and lakes military targets.”

 

A pall of thick, oily, black smoke is chugging from the Messerschmitt. 

 

“There’s a lake nearby? He’ll have to ditch soon or he’ll crash.”

 

“Yes, Sir, somewhere in the woods here. He won’t make it though, and even if he got there, the Spitfires will stop him getting the altitude he needs to ditch,” Gilmore answers.

 

Both men jump sideways as the German plane barely skims over the car. They land in an undignified heap in the middle of the bench seat. Ashton and Gilmore wrench away to the far ends of the bench, and straighten their uniforms. The plane lifts up in a vertical climb, smoke and sparks in all directions, and then plunges into the ground.

 

***

 

The car skews to a halt by the side of a shallow, babbling brook. The paint is blistering and bubbling; tiny little craters making the roof look like the surface of the moon. Mud, soot, and leaves cover the sides and undercarriage of the car.

 

Ashton looks across through the trees at the flames still burning. “I know they were Nazis, but that’s a horrible way to die.”

 

“There’s worse.”

 

“Oh?” Ashton asks, looking across at him.

 

“Bleeding to death is worse.” Gilmore walks to the back of the car and gets out a small trunk.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Basic survival kit, Sir.”

 

“I don’t suppose you have any char in there at all?” Ashton asks.

 

“Wouldn’t be much of a survival kit without tea, Sir.”

 

Ashton grimaces as he looks at his uniform. “I’m going to try and clean myself up. I’ll follow the river around a little way. Tell me when the tea is ready.”

 

“There’s a waterfall feeding into the river about a half mile away.”

 

“I’ll try not to go over it in a barrel.”

 

***

 

The water is boiling so Gilmore wraps his sleeve around his hand, and takes the kettle from the fire. He pours the hot water into the tin teapot, and spoons in tea leaves to brew.

 

“Lieutenant?” Gilmore calls. “Sir?” He sighs and sets off, following the path of the river. “Bloody officers,” he mutters under his breath. “Why can’t they stay where you put them? Always have to be wandering off.”

 

Ashton has found the waterfall. Clear, azure water tumbles down the hillside and into the little grotto where he is bathing.

 

Gilmore sees the rinsed off uniform first, hanging drying from branches. Ashton’s shoes and underwear are laid out neatly under a tree.

 

Ashton sees something from the corner of his eye. He turns around and smiles at the startled, staring, older man.

 

“Sergeant?”

 

“Sir, uh, the tea is brewing. I’ll go and… um…”

 

“Alright. I’ll be along.”

 

“Right, I’ll… yes…” Gilmore stutters, then spins around and scurries off.

 

Ashton watches him go, and smiles to himself.

 

***

 

Wearing only his undershirt and long johns, Ashton walks back to the car, carrying his damp uniform under his arm.

 

Gilmore, red-faced and embarrassed, stands up as he approaches. “Sir,” he stumbles over the word. “Sir, I’m very sorry…”

 

“You’ve got a damn nerve!”

 

“Sir…”

 

“How dare you allow a commissioned officer to see you in such a filthy, disgusting state?”

 

“I…I’m sorry?”

 

“Your uniform is a disgrace!” Ashton snaps, folding his arms.

 

“My uniform?”

 

“Go and clean yourself off immediately.”

 

Gilmore looks at his soot encrusted uniform and smiles mechanically. “Yes Sir.” He pours the remains of his tea onto the ground, and then walks off towards the waterfall.

 

Ashton carefully hangs his uniform on a branch to dry, and then pours the tea through the strainer into a clean tin mug. Gilmore has helpfully left the little ceramic bottle of milk by the hamper. Ashton unwedges the stopper and pours a little into the mug. He swirls the tea around in the cup and takes a sip.

 

There are birds flying overhead, and butterflies skittering through the grass. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves as Ashton lies on his side with the warm summer sun shining down.

 

When he has finished he stands and strolls after Gilmore.

 

The older man has not risked the waterfall but is swimming in the stream. Ashton watches from behind a tree as Gilmore dives into the fast running water. When he surfaces his hair is slicked back and almost black. The scars across his chest are a splash of colour against his pale skin.

Ashton strips off his undershirt and long johns and dives into the water. He grabs Gilmore by the hand, and pulls him into a cave behind the waterfall. 

 

“This is madness!”

 

Ashton grins, the flickering light reflecting through the water bounces across his face. “This is you and I, in our own little world, just for a little while.”

 

“I don’t trust you,” Gilmore protests quietly as Ashton pulls his face down.

 

“But you like me, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, I like you.”

 

Ashton kisses him, softly at first, and then more firmly. Then in a blur of lust and hunger they are kissing and grabbing. Thrusting together on the cave floor, the water pounding, and the shadows crawling over the cave walls.

 

***

 

Ashton rolls over to face the other man. “This friend of yours?”

 

Gilmore looks at him blankly. “My friend?”

 

“The affectionate friend,” Ashton clarifies.

 

“Oh, Simon?”

 

“That hamper you put in the car, is that for him?”

 

“They would only have thrown it away.”

 

“If that’s how much food it takes to get into his trousers, then he must be the size of a house,” Ashton says sourly.

 

Gilmore rolls onto his side and stares at the younger man. “Don’t talk about him like that. He’s a nice lad making the best of a lousy situation.”

 

“Because he’s your little pal, and he does it out of the goodness of his heart?”

 

“There’s no need to be jealous of Simon,” Gilmore says, tentatively touching the back of Ashton’s fingers.

 

“I’m not jealous!”

 

“Your face is a liar then.”

 

Ashton reddens, and stares up at the cave roof. “You talk about him like he’s a friend.”

 

“He is.”

 

“Do you bugger him?”

 

“Yes, sometimes.”

 

“How can you do that to him if he’s a friend?” Ashton pulls his hand away.

 

“What do you mean?”  

 

Ashton sits up with his back to Gilmore, and draws his knees up. “You know.”

 

“You’ve never done it.”

 

“No!”

 

“He enjoys it; I wouldn’t do it if he didn’t. Didn’t I make sure you enjoyed yourself?” Gilmore asks.

 

Ashton half turns, and smiles at him slightly. “Yes.” He chews his thumb for a minute. “But that was different. What’s it like? Is it like screwing a girl?”

 

“I don’t think I know you well enough for this conversation,” Gilmore says.

 

“We can blow each other, but that’s all?” Ashton raises an eyebrow.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Because I’m not your little pet whore?”

 

Gilmore gets to his feet and walks out of the cave, through the curtain of falling water, without looking back.

 

Ashton swears to himself.

 

***

 

Slabs of pink meat lie sizzling in the spitting fat next to slices of potato.

 

Ashton walks slowly over to the camp fire, and smiles hopefully at Gilmore. “That smells good.”

 

“Just spam and tatties.” Gilmore shoves a plate of cooling food at Ashton. “I’m saving the good stuff for my pet whore.”

 

“I’m not good with words.”

 

“That’s abundantly clear.” Gilmore returns to cooking his dinner.

 

Ashton uses his army knife to chop his food into small portions, and then eats with his fingers. “Why do you risk it?”

 

“My cooking isn’t that bad.”  

 

“I don’t mean your  _cooking_ ,” Ashton says, rolling his eyes. “I mean, well, you can’t trust people. They let you down, even if they mean well.”

 

“That’s a sad way to think.”

 

“I’m just being realistic,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Look, you’re relying on the discretion of a boy who sells himself for scraps of bread. If he’s prepared to do that to survive, then he won’t hesitate to throw you to the wolves.”

 

“I know him.”

 

“And he knows you, that’s your mistake.”

 

“You think your anonymity will protect you?” Gilmore snorts. “Picking up some Yank volunteer on a  _train_ , are you  _trying_  to be exposed publicly?”

 

“You’ve never been so carried away that you did something foolhardy?”

 

“About twenty minutes ago,” the older man says dryly.

 

“You won’t tell anyone,” Ashton says flatly.

 

“No.”

 

“Your people are Welsh?”

 

“Yes, although originally Scottish I believe.”

 

“Didn’t think Gilmore was a very Welsh name,” Ashton says with a small smile.

 

“It means ‘servant of the Virgin Mary’ in Gaelic. Somewhere in the past there must’ve been Catholics in the family.”

 

“You’re not?”

 

“My family are Calvinists.”

 

“Oh.” Ashton shifts uncomfortably. “No confession?”

 

“No, never understood how that works.”

 

“I’ll confess to the priest, and he’ll give me absolution,” Ashton answers.

 

“What if he tells someone?”

 

“He wouldn’t!” Ashton says, shocked. “Breaking the confessional seal would be a terrible sin.”

 

Gilmore smiles a sly little smile. “Which is worse? I’m a man, or I’m not a Catholic?”

 

“That’s not funny.”

 

Gilmore looks at his watch. “Time is pressing on.”

 

“We best make ready then.” Ashton chews his lower lip. “What do you do?”

 

“Do?” Gilmore asks.

 

“When you’ve been with a man. If you don’t confess then how do you get absolution?”

 

“You think what we did was wrong?” Gilmore pours water over the fire.

 

“It’s a sin.”

 

“Then the confessional will be a comfort for you,” Gilmore says mildly.

 

Ashton gathers his things together and heads for the car.

 

***

 

The drive back is almost silent with Gilmore staring straight ahead, and Ashton watching his hands fidgeting in his lap.

 

Back at the camp, Ashton goes to report to Lawson while Gilmore goes to his quarters.

 

That night Ashton follows Gilmore as he heads off with his hamper.

 

***

 

“Hello!” Simon says brightly. “How was the Smoke?”

 

“Smokey,” Gilmore replies. “How did you know I’ve been to London?”

 

“It’s been all over the village. Big gossip.”

 

“I’ve brought you a little present.”

 

“I’m not really… um…” Simon bites his lip.

 

“I know, your captain in the RAF,” the older man answers reassuringly. 

 

“Not for food or money,” Simon elaborates. “It would be okay with him if I did it for fun with you, but… it wouldn’t feel right to me.”

 

“I understand, but this is a gift between friends.” Gilmore hands over the hamper.

 

“Really, for me?”

 

“Really for you.”

 

Simon grins as he unbuckles the straps and opens the hamper. “Who’d you nick all this from?”

 

“Oi, cheek! I do  _not_  steal,” Gilmore says firmly.

 

“Tooth fairy left it under your pillow, did she?”

 

“Had to stay at headquarters with the Top Brass. That lot look after themselves. The cook was going to chuck that lot away. Be careful, some of it might be on the turn.”

 

“Don’t care! It’ll be nice to have milk that isn’t ready to walk out of the door.”

 

“You should’ve said you needed milk.”

 

“I’m not a charity case!” Simon says sharply.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean...”

 

“I’m going away soon.”

 

“To London, after your mam?”

 

“Nah, with Jack.” Simon takes a huge bite of a pork pie.

 

“Your Yank captain?”

 

“Yeah.” Simon looks steadily at him. “I know you think I need looking after, and that I’m going to get myself into trouble.”

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Gilmore protests, reddening.

 

“I know what I’m doing, Craig.”

 

“Where’re you going?”

 

“Around, anywhere, everywhere! Jack likes me, I like him, he’s got a couple of pals and we like each other. We’re all going travelling.”

 

“In the middle of the war? Simon, please be careful. You barely know this man.”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” he promises as he buckles up the hamper. “Maybe I’ll see you in Denmark, eh?”

 

“Simon…”

 

“Wish me luck?” Simon asks, standing and kissing Gilmore on the forehead.

 

“Good luck,” he says genuinely.

 

“Give me a smile?”

 

Gilmore kisses him on the cheek. “Be safe.”

 

Simon salutes, and begins walking back through the woods. Ashton shifts from his hiding place, skirts around Gilmore, and follows after Simon.

 

After about half a mile Simon sits on a tree stump for a rest, and Ashton walks into his field of vision.

 

“Good evening.”

 

“Good evening… Lieutenant, is it?” Simon asks suspiciously.

 

“That’s right. You’re not in the army, lad?”

 

“Failed the medical, Sir. I’m in the Home Guard.”

 

“I hear you do your bit in other ways,” Ashton says.

 

“Don’t know what you mean, Sir.”

 

Ashton nods at the hamper. “You must be a good lay for a pay-off like that.”

 

“Don’t know what you mean, Sir,” Simon repeats coldly.

 

“Sergeant Major Gilmore gave me your name.”

 

“Don’t know him.”

 

“I just saw you with him,” Ashton snaps.

 

“Not me, Sir.”

 

Ashton walks over and stands in front of the younger man.

 

“I saw you.”

 

Simon stands up and looks him in the eye. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“You’re very convincing.”

 

“You calling me a liar?”

 

“I don’t want trouble,” Ashton says, holding up his hands.

 

“Good.” Simon picks up his hamper and starts to walk off, but Ashton grabs his arm.

 

“You can talk to me, or I can talk to the police about that hamper. Which is it?”

 

“What’s your problem?” Simon wrenches his arm free.

 

“I want to know everything about Gilmore.”

 

Simon picks a branch from the ground and hits Ashton on the side of the head.

 

***

 

It’s pitch dark when Ashton comes round. The vivid splash of blood on his head has grown clotted and sticky. A needle of pain jams into his brain and lights pop in front of his eyes. He gets carefully to his feet, and staggers off towards the camp.

 

“What the hell happened to you?” Lawson demands.

 

“Took a tumble and cracked my head, Sir.”

 

“Did you really?” Lawson asks sourly. “What were you doing in the woods at night?”

 

Ashton realises too late that his uniform is covered with leaves and woodland debris.

 

“It wasn’t that late when I went, Sir. I was unconscious for quite a while.”

 

“That’s quite likely after such a nasty bang on the head,” the doctor says helpfully.

 

“Wait outside, Doctor,” Lawson answers.

 

“But…”

 

“ _Now_!”

 

Ashton tenses as Lawson leans in close.

 

“You listen to me, my lad, General Bush can have as many crackpot initiatives on making soldiers ‘morally pure’ as he likes, but I will not have one of his little spies disrupting the camp. If you go lurking behind trees to watch soldiers bedding a different girl every night, then you deserve one of them clouting you. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble with the village your carry on would cause?”

 

“I… I wasn’t…”

 

“Lieutenant, I am keeping my eye on you. If I hear a whisper that you’re making life difficult for whoever did this, then I will shred you into a thousand tiny pieces. Is there any part of this you are unclear about?”

 

“No Sir.”

 

***

 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Ashton’s voice shakes as he speaks. “It has been four weeks since my last confession.”

 

“Tell me your sins, my child.”

 

“I have broken the seventh commandment, Father. I have had impure thoughts and fornicated.”

 

The army chaplain nods to himself.

 

“The thought often leads to the deed, my son. What acts of fornication have you performed?”

 

“I allowed another to touch me in a way that gave me carnal pleasure.”

 

“Did you engage in intercourse?”

 

“No, Father. I fear I will commit this sin again.”

 

“We all have a cross to bear, my son. We all have temptations put in front of us. Have you committed any other sins?”

 

“Anger, Father, and jealousy.”

 

“Have you acted on the anger or jealousy?”

 

“Father?”

 

“Have you struck out in anger, my son? Have you lashed out in your jealousy?”

 

“I have lashed out in speech, but not in manner.”

 

“Four Hail Marys, and two acts of contrition.”

 

“Thank you, Father.”

 

“Go in peace, my son.”

 

***

 

**Some weeks later**

 

The blanket of leaves; orange, gold, and red covers the yard as Ashton walks through the chill night air. He finds Gilmore in the exercise yard examining the ground.

 

“Sergeant Major?”

 

Gilmore looks up warily and nods.

 

“Good evening, Lieutenant.”

 

Ashton licks his lips. “Have you lost something?”

 

“Just testing the ground.”

 

“I know the feeling.”

 

“All healed?” Gilmore asks, indicating Ashton’s head.

 

“Oh, yes. I’ll have to be more careful when I’m walking in the countryside. I’m used to the city.”

 

“Simon may be small, but he can fetch quite a wallop.”

 

Ashton flushes, and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “He told you.”

 

“Word gets around,” Gilmore says in a guarded tone.

 

“Do  _you_  think I was watching the courting couples?”

 

Gilmore’s eyebrows shoot up, and he stands carefully. “It’s not my place to speculate on the leisure activities of commissioned officers.”

 

Ashton looks around but there is only one guard visible, and he is patrolling on the far side on the exercise ground.

 

“That’s what Lawson thinks I was doing. He thinks that General Bush asked me to be his spy.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Have you spoken to Simon recently?” Ashton says cautiously.

 

“No, he’s gone travelling.”

 

“Travelling? Really?”

 

“He sends me postcards. Some of the places I’ve never heard of.” Gilmore smiles slightly. “Some of the pictures look like the backside of the moon. He seems happy though.”

 

“You must miss him.” Ashton checks again where the guard is. “Nobody to talk to.”

 

“There is that.”

 

“Could we… meet?”

 

“I think that would be a very bad idea,” Gilmore says gruffly.

 

“You said the woods were safe.”

 

“They may be.”

 

“But I’m not, is that it?” Ashton asks quietly.

 

“I don’t know you.” Gilmore answers. “And you believe that it’s safer not to be known.”

 

“I think about you all the time,” Ashton says softly. The older man gives him a small smile. “Do you think about me?”

 

“Not all the time.”

 

Ashton’s face falls.

 

“Every third or fourth minute at most,” Gilmore adds.

 

“Oh.” Ashton smiles down at the ground and kicks the soil idly. “I have a weekend pass, and you have an evening pass for Sunday. Come to the woods?”

 

“How do you know when my evening pass is?”

 

“I arrange the passes, Sunday evening then?”

 

“Don’t smile at me, if I get hard labour I don’t want it to have been on account of a pretty smile.”

 

***

 

**Sunday**

 

“Have a good evening, Sergeant Major,” Hollis says.

 

“Thanks, Reg,” Gilmore says cheerfully. “I’m sure I will.”

 

“He’s in a good mood,” Private Conway says sourly.

 

“An evening pass probably helps.”

 

The autumn air is warm and fragrant with the scent of late flowering roses. The sky is sultry golden amber streaked with coral. The woods are carpeted in a mosaic of red, orange, and brown leaves.

 

Gilmore winds through the trees towards the derelict gamekeeper’s cottage. Ashton is sitting on a tree stump sipping Scotch from a flask.

 

“Evening, Sergeant Major.”

 

“Evening, Lieutenant.” Gilmore takes the offered flask and takes a gulp. “That’s good stuff.”

 

“Black market.”

 

“Private Chandler?”

 

“Well, from Lieutenant Klein, but I don’t know who he got it from,” Ashton says with a shrug. “Is Chandler the man to go to?”

 

“I find it’s best to keep as many links in the chain between yourself and Chandler as possible,” Gilmore says dryly. “That one was born to hang.”

 

“I’m glad I have you to tell me these things,” Ashton says, tentatively touching Gilmore’s hand with his fingers.

 

“This way.”

 

Gilmore leads him through dense woodland to a massive oak tree. There is no light coming through the canopy of leaves and branches; the area is cloaked in darkness and thin creeping shadows.

 

“It’s so dark,” Ashton says softly.

 

“Why’re you whispering?”

 

“It seems the right thing to do.”

 

Gilmore slips his hand into the other man’s, leading him underneath the tree and behind the knotted mass of roots. The hollow is formed of warm, moist earth and filled with the smell of sap.

Gilmore pulls two torches from his pockets, and places one on a natural shelf, and wedges the other into a tree root. When he turns them both on diffuse light fills the hollow.

 

“We’ll be safe in here.”

 

Ashton spreads his coat on the ground and sits down. “It’s damp, it smells a little strange, and there are bugs.” He smiles up at the other man. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”     

 

Gilmore takes off his own coat and sits down.

 

“Tell me again how you think about me all the time?”

 

Ashton pushes his fingers through Gilmore’s hair, hooks his hand behind Gilmore’s head, and pulls him in for a kiss.

 

Fingers tug at buttons and then zippers. Trousers and shorts are tugged down. Ashton pants against Gilmore’s neck, whining as their bodies buck together, hands grabbing at the other man’s hair. Gilmore rolls over, pinning Ashton beneath him, and crushes his mouth against Ashton’s.

 

There are grunts, whimpers, a brief frenzy of activity, and then silent stillness.

 

***

 

“What’s this from?” Ashton asks, brushing his fingers over the purplish scars on Gilmore’s chest.

 

“Hand grenade went off and I got hit. It didn’t go deep, but it took a few layers of skin off. What about your knee?”

 

“Strafed at Dunkirk. Nothing much. Have you seen much action?” Ashton smiles. “As it were.”

 

“Too much. Went over the pond, up through France, and into Belgium. Then things turned, and we got chased all the way back to Dunkirk.”

 

“What did you do before the war?”

 

“School teaching,” Gilmore answers. “There were only ten children in the village, myself and Valerie comprised the entire teaching staff.”  

 

“Really?”

 

“On my honour. What did you do before the war?”

 

“Oh, you know.” He leans back against the wall and watches Gilmore dressing. “So is ‘Valerie’ just holding the fort until you can get back to her?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Not staying in touch?” Ashton prompts.

 

“No,” Gilmore says, smiling at him slightly. “We worked together, we were friendly.”

 

“Oh.” Ashton blushes, and looks at his feet. “Do you ever think it might be nice to just stay here?” he tries.

 

“In a hollow beneath a tree?”

 

“Why not? No war, no people, no worries.”

 

Gilmore sits down next to him.

 

“What are you worrying about?”

 

“Nothing!” Ashton gets to his feet and gets dressed. “It’s late. I need to go.”

 

“Don’t snap at me. If you don’t want to talk then don’t, but there’s no need to get angry.”

 

“I’m not.” Ashton stuffs his hands into his pockets.

 

“You certainly sound it,” Gilmore says evenly.

 

“I’m sorry. I find myself feeling hemmed in for some reason.”

 

“The war won’t last forever,” the older man says gently. “There’ll be changes then.”

 

“Why? Why will there? Nothing changed after the Great War.” Ashton turns on Gilmore. “New songs, new clothes, and new turns at the music hall; only  _things_  change. Stupid, petty, worthless rubbish that means nothing. People won’t look at us differently after the war, why should they?”

 

“Because we’ve earned the right to be treated like everyone else.”

 

“We’re inverts… perverts! Criminals and sinners. We’re  _not_  like everyone else.”

 

“The law’s wrong,” Gilmore says quietly.

 

“You haven’t an ounce of shame, have you?”

 

“For this? No.” Gilmore stands up and walks over. “For the Germans I’ve killed, and for my buddies killed by Germans, I feel shame. For twitching, crying, puking little boys on a battlefield playing at soldiers. Watching men I’ve shot die in agony while I can nothing about it. I’m a murderer, but I’ll never be punished for it.”

 

“It’s war,” Ashton says, softly consoling. 

 

“That doesn’t make it right.”

 

Ashton slips his hand into Gilmore’s and squeezes his fingers. “We all do what we have to do.”

 

“Is this it, then? Is this all being with you is; skulking in the dark for a brief fumble like rutting schoolboys?”

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

“More than this!”

 

“You want to bugger me?” Ashton asks uncertainly.

 

“No,” Gilmore says quietly. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” He climbs out of the hollow, and starts to walk away.

 

“Okay, that was wrong.” Ashton calls, scrambling out after him. “Okay?” He trips over a root and lands painfully. “Shit! Ow! Stupid bloody knee.”

 

Gilmore walks back, and kneels to examine his leg. “Looks like a sprain, if you can put it up when you get back you should be alright.”

 

He looks sheepishly at Gilmore. “Would you give me your shoulder, Sergeant?”

 

“Of course, Lieutenant. Not sure how we’ll explain it though.” He pulls Ashton to his feet easily, and takes his weight. “Injured in the woods  _again_ , people will talk.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on admitting that part,” Ashton says dryly. “My knee seizes up frequently without the assistance of falling over.”

 

***

 

Ashton’s nails are biting into the palms of his hands as he flashes the guards a grimace-like smile.

 

“You alright, Lieutenant? You look a little tense.”

 

“Fine, thank you, Private.”

 

He marches stiffly to his quarters, carefully closes the door, and collapses onto his bed clutching his knee.

 

Under the soft moonlight a fox is gnawing at the cooling corpse partially hidden behind the huts.

 

***

 

“Stand in line! Stand in line!” Smith screams at the milling prisoners.

 

“What the hell’s going on?” Gilmore demands.

 

“They won’t stand still to be counted.”

 

“I’m not getting dragged all the way to London again,” Gilmore says harshly. “Get them split into groups of seven. Drag ‘em into the exercise yard if you have to, but do it right now.”

 

“Yes, Sergeant Major!” Smith salutes quickly. He and three privates break up the mob of prisoners and drag the four groups apart.

 

“Chandler! You’ve only got six in your group!”

 

“Can’t find Corporal Glick, Sarge.”

 

“Lock down the camp!” Gilmore orders. “Smith, organise a camp search.”

 

***

 

The body is splayed out face down in the earth. The shirt has been clawed apart, and small chunks of flesh have been chewed away. A string of purple bruises, obscenely bright against the pale skin, are around his throat.   

 

Smith and Gilmore roll the body over on its back.

 

“It’s Corporal Glick all right,” Gilmore confirms.

 

“Why the hell is his cock hanging out?” Jarvis asks darkly.

 

“Maybe he was taking a slash?” Smith suggests.

 

“Out here, at night? When there’s a latrine in the huts?” Gilmore replies.

 

“We’re going to get crucified for this,” Jarvis says, shaking his head. He waves a hand as he sees Corporal Hollis approaching. 

 

“The MPs are on the way,” Hollis announces. “Commander Lawson says that I and Sergeant Smith should stand guard until they arrive.”

 

“Good, the MPs can fret about it,” Jarvis says decisively. “Smith, Gilmore, you two better turn the body over the way we found it.”

 

***

 

Gilmore is standing in the exercise yard, watching the angry prisoners milling about, when Ashton sidles up to him.

 

Gilmore salutes, smiles politely, and speaks in a low voice. “We can’t be seen together. There are military police everywhere.”

 

“I’m just after the scuttlebutt. I don’t know who else to ask,” Ashton says earnestly. “Is it true he was murdered?”

 

“Unless he throttled himself to death, Sir.”

 

“Could he have hanged himself, and the belt or whatever snapped?”

 

“No,” Gilmore says flatly.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“The marks around his neck. I’ve seen hanged men, and afterwards the mark is even around the neck, except for the knot at the front, just there. But someone put their hands around Glick’s throat and squeezed until he was dead. Clear as day it is.”

 

“That’s awful.”

 

“Sergeant,” Captain Best calls, walking across to them. The two men salute. “Are you alright? Body was a mess I heard, even for wartime”

 

“I’m fine, Sir. My dad was an undertaker, I’ve seen worse.”

 

“Not how you expect to die in a war,” Ashton comments. “Let alone at a POW camp.”

 

“It’s strange, I’d have thought that Glick was popular with the others,” Best says. “If he was disliked enough to be killed that way, then why did they take him along on the escape?”

 

“They’re understandably angry,” Gilmore says with a shrug. “Far too angry for any of them to have been involved.”

 

“I don’t think you’d strangle someone out of dislike,” Ashton says quietly. “Shoot them perhaps, hit them on the head, or maybe beat them up so badly they’d die. Strangling someone though is so… up close. You’d be able to look them in the eye as you murdered them.”

 

The three men shiver, and Gilmore takes a step back.

 

“With your permission, Sir, I have to see to the roster. With the MPs here interviewing everyone, I’ll have to cancel all leave.”

 

“Yes, certainly.” Best nods. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.”

 

***

 

Ashton is on duty in the canteen when Corporal Hollis rushes in.

 

“You’re never going to believe what’s just happened,” he says to the privates preparing dinner.

 

“Corporal, you are  _late_  for duty,” Ashton says sharply.

 

“I’m sorry; Lieutenant, but the MPs were questioning me.”

 

“Give them lots of stories, did you?” Private Chandler sneers.

 

“As I was leaving,” Hollis continues, ignoring the interruption. “I saw them arresting Sergeant Major Gilmore!”

 

“Don’t be absurd!” Ashton says sharply. “They’re interviewing everyone.”

 

“This was different, Sir.”

 

Ashton shoves Hollis back against a kitchen counter. “For once in your life stop spreading malicious gossip and do some work!”

 

“Sir,” Hollis squeaks.

 

Ashton walks out through the back door and vomits into the bin.

 

***

 

The MP places a cheap silver chain on the table.

 

“That yours?”

 

Gilmore looks at it carefully without touching it, and shakes his head. “I don’t believe so.”

 

“You don’t  _believe_  so? Don’t you know?”

 

“I used to have a chain, but it had a little St Sebastian symbol on it. I don’t have it anymore.”

 

The ugly lieutenant in the ill-fitting uniform leans forward and speaks for the first time.

 

“Good Catholic boy, are you?” he sneers.

 

“Bad Calvinist, Sir. It was a gift from my first commander. When he died I buried it with him.”

 

“Of course you did,” the Lieutenant snickers. “And the reason nobody saw you when the sausage sucker was being topped was because you were watching a cock-fight in one of the huts.”

 

“I was on an evening pass.”

 

“Getting rid of evidence were yer?”

 

“I had nothing to do with Corporal Glick’s death!”

 

“What were you doing on your evening pass?” he demands.

 

“I didn’t kill Corporal Glick,” Gilmore repeats.

 

***

 

“He looks like the bastard child of a gorilla and a milkmaid,” Smith mutters darkly. 

 

“Nasty with it too,” Hollis answers, accepting the proffered cigarette. “Lieutenant Kent may be an officer, but he’s no gentleman.”

 

“Gentleman? Don’t be so bleeding soft.” Smith leans back against his chair, and looks around the canteen. “There’s more nobility in us then there is in any of them.” He takes a drag on his cigarette. “Well, maybe not you.”

 

“I heard he won’t tell them what he was doing,” Hollis says, leaning closer and lowering his voice.

 

“So?”

 

“So, don’t you think that’s suspicious? What’s he got to hide if he  _didn’t_  do it?”

 

“He’s Welsh, isn’t he? Perhaps he was off buggering a sheep.”

 

“I don’t think there’s any call for that kind of insinuation,” Hollis says, offended

 

“Right, but insinuating that he murdered Corporal Glick is okay?”

 

“I wasn’t saying that, Sarge, just that it’s a little… strange. I’m sure that the Sergeant Major would never do anything like that.” Hollis shifts in his seat. “Although Corporal Glick was a German, and we are at war.”

 

“He was a POW. We don’t kill POWs, and if we did it wouldn’t be Gilmore, and he wouldn’t throttle them. Now shut up about it.”

 

***

 

Ashton walks into the officers’ mess and sits next to Best, a few seats down from Lawson.

 

“Is there any news, Sir?” Best asks.

 

“About what?” Lawson asks coldly.

 

“About Corporal Glick’s murder, and Sergeant Major Gilmore,” Best perseveres.

 

“No.” Lawson stabs his potato with his fork.

 

“I don’t believe he did it,” Best says firmly.

 

“The MPs don’t seem to care what any of us think,” Jarvis says gloomily.

 

“We don’t know him, not really,” Garfield says thoughtfully. “The MPs must have a good reason for suspecting him. Something we don’t know. We don’t know the man after all.”

 

“ _I_  know him,” Best says sharply. “And if you have so little interest in the men under your command, then you will find leading them very difficult.”

 

“We’re trained to kill,” Ashton says quietly. “Perhaps that makes it easy to believe the worst.”

 

“We do what we have to. We’re none of us murderers for hire,” Best says to Ashton. “I’ve served with Gilmore a long time. I’ve seen him kill, because he has to, he does it quickly, and takes no pleasure in it.”

 

“The MPs must have some proof,” Garfield argues.

 

“Proof? Since when do they need proof? He’s not going to get a civilian trial, there’s no presumption of innocence. He’s going to be court martialled; he has to prove he’s innocent, and he doesn’t seem interested in defending himself,” Jarvis says wearily.

 

“I’d like to defend him at the court martial,” Best says to Lawson.

 

“It won’t come to that, surely?” Ashton panics.

 

“MPs don’t muck about investigating crimes. They’ll find a likely suspect, and have them up in front of a firing squad as quick as you’d like,” Jarvis answers.

 

***

 

Gilmore is sitting on the narrow bed in the glass house. The MP raps on the door and shouts through the slot.

 

“Visitor.”

 

The door swings open, and Ashton walks in looking pale and nervous. The MP stations himself by the door. Gilmore grinds his teeth as he stands and salutes Ashton stiffly. “Sah!”

 

“Is there anything that you need, Sergeant Major?” Ashton scans Gilmore’s face.

 

“Very kind of you to ask, Sir,” Gilmore answers evenly, staring over the younger man’s shoulder.

 

“Anything at all?”

 

“A book might help to pass the time, thank you.”

 

“A book? Are you sure there isn’t something else that I can help you with?” Ashton prompts, helplessly.

 

Gilmore looks him in the eye.

 

“There’s nothing else, Sir. Thank you.”

 

“But…”

 

“A book, thank you.”

 

“Sorry, Sir,” the MP says, ushering Ashton out and locking the door. “That’s all your time. If you give me the book then I’ll pass it on to the Sergeant Major.”

 

“Right. Okay.” Ashton trudges out behind the MP.

 

“Better be quick with the book. The court martial’s tomorrow morning.”

 

“What? He didn’t do it!”

 

“I wouldn’t know about it,” the MP says stiffly. “A court martial is always done as soon as the officers can be assembled. Like I said, you better hurry with the book.”

 

***

 

Gilmore’s quarters are barely large enough for his bed and a chair, but he has several shelves of books. There is a book neatly placed on the footlocker. The bookmark is an irregular wedge of cardboard covered in drawings of hills, flowers, and clouds. A childish hand has scrawled ‘For My Teacher’ in careful, rounded words across the top. Ashton tucks the bookmark back and flips through the pages, putting the book back onto the footlocker. Instead he finds a copy of ‘Candide’ on one of the shelves and takes that instead.

 

“I’ve brought the book,” he says to the MP.

 

“I’ll give it him when the Captain and the Colonel are finished.”

 

“The Captain and the Colonel?”

 

“Captain Best and Colonel Lawson are in there with him. Trying to get him to admit it I shouldn’t wonder.”

 

“He’s innocent,” Ashton says quietly.

 

“That’s what they all say.”

 

***

 

“I can order you,” Lawson growls. “Damn it, man, do you want to be in front of a firing squad?”

 

“It’s not my preference, Sir.”

 

“Look, Captain Best here is going to do what he can for you at the court martial, but you’re not helping him.”

 

“I’m sorry about that, Sir,” Gilmore says politely.

 

“Whatever or whoever you’re protecting can’t be worth dying for,” Best says.

 

“Is it the lad the police were talking about?” Lawson asks.

 

“What?”

 

“Chief Inspector Dearheart told me there is a young man in the village who provides certain services to men he knows well.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Colonel,” Gilmore grinds out.

 

“Apparently the local police don’t think it worthwhile prosecuting the lad, or his customers,” Lawson continues, ignoring Gilmore. “He keeps his nose clean, is in the Home Guard, and keeps his business out of sight.”

 

“Were you were with him?” Best asks.    

 

“No, Sir.”

 

“It wouldn’t have to be a dishonourable discharge,” Lawson promises. “I could talk to the doc, get you a medical discharge. There would be no record, and no dishonour.”

 

“I wasn’t,” Gilmore hesitates, and then sighs. “I wasn’t with Simon.”

 

“The military police have no jurisdiction over Simon,” Best says evenly. “The civilian police aren’t interested in him. You’ve nothing to gain by protecting him.”

 

“I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Gilmore plays with a loose button on his jacket. “But I  _wasn’t_  with Simon. That’s all there is to it.”

 

“Who  _were_  you with?” Lawson asks.

 

“Sir, I’m sorry I’m causing you embarrassment. I regret the disruption to the camp.”

 

“That’s not good enough.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Gilmore says quietly.

 

***

 

Father McLeish is writing at his desk when someone knocks frantically at the door. 

 

“Are you there, Father?” an anxious voice whispers.

 

“Yes? Come in.”

 

“Can you hear my confession please?”

 

“It’s very late,” McLeish says gently. “Can it wait until tomorrow, when you’re a little calmer?”

 

“No! Please, I don’t know what to do for the best. I need to talk to someone.”

 

McLeish puts away his letter, and turns to the door. “If you want guidance, my son, you can come in and talk to me. Anything you say  _will_  be in confidence.”

 

“I  _can’t_. Please Father?”

 

“Very well, my son. Go to the chapel, and I’ll be along in a moment.”

 

“Thank you, thank you.”

 

McLeish waits a couple of minutes, and then walks out and over into the confessional.

 

***

 

Father McLeish sets aside his prayer book and waits for Ashton to compose himself.

 

“What is it that’s causing so much distress, my son?”

 

“Father, I don’t know what to do. A man is accused of a crime I know he didn’t commit, but he doesn’t wish me to come forward. If he’s convicted, he’ll be executed.”

 

“Why doesn’t he want you to come forward?”

 

Ashton licks his lips slowly. “We were… together when it happened, Father.”

 

“I see,” Father McLeish says mildly.

 

“I visited him. I couldn’t speak plainly as there was a guard, but he made it clear he doesn’t want me to clear his name.”

 

“Death before dishonour?”

 

Ashton laughs a little, nervously. “Manly stuff is for poets and song writers, Father.”

 

“Your friend has made his choice not to defend himself,” Father McLeish says carefully. “But unfortunately that means he is also protecting the guilty.”

 

“I confess my sins, Father,” Ashton protests.

 

“No, my son,” McLeish says soothingly. “You misunderstand me. While your friend stands accused, the real criminal hides in his shadow.”

 

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

 

“Every crime has a victim. The Bible teaches that spilled blood cries out for justice. Your friend has made his choice for reasons that I’m sure seem right to him. You must examine your conscience for what you know to be right,” Father McLeish says.

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“Whatever the consequences, my son, you will be clear before God and in your own conscience.”

 

Ashton nods to himself. “Thank you.”

 

Father McLeish clears his throat. “I’ve heard that when a man asks for advice; what he really wants is someone to speak while he makes up his own mind.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ashton says with a smile in his voice. “Thank you very much for your help and your time, Father.”   

 

***

 

Ashton wakes early, feeling as clear and fragile as the first breath of winter frost. He gets ready with even more care than usual, and makes his way to Best’s office.

 

“Sorry, Sir, but the Captain is not to be disturbed,” Private Brownlow says politely. “He’s going to be defending Sergeant Major Gilmore at the court martial.”

 

“That’s what I need to see him about. It’s very important that I see him as soon as possible. Please can you tell him that I know where the Sergeant Major was when Glick was being murdered,” Ashton insists.

 

“I’ll tell the Captain that you’re here,” Private Brownlow says with a startled look back at the closed office door. 

 

“I’ll be right here.” Ashton paces the room until Brownlow scuttles out and returns to his desk. Best marches out, grabs Ashton by the arm, and drags him into the office. He releases Ashton and slams the door shut.

 

“What the  _bloody_  hell are you trying to do?”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you trying to ruin everything?” Best asks. “Brownlow won’t say anything, but someone else could have heard you.”

 

“Gilmore didn’t kill Corporal Glick, Captain,” Ashton says earnestly.

 

“Did you come bursting in here at the crack of dawn to tell me that?” Best asks. “Don’t you think I know that?”

 

“Yes, but…” Ashton takes a breath. “But I can prove it.”

 

“Is that so?” Best says in an oddly emotionless tone.

 

“He was with me.” Ashton tries to catch the other man’s eye. “We were in the woods.” 

 

“No, you weren’t.”

 

Ashton blinks. “I’m sorry?”

 

“You weren’t in the woods with Gilmore,” Best says flatly, finally meeting Ashton’s eyes.

 

“I… Captain? I don’t understand.”

 

“Sergeant Major Gilmore was with a RAF volunteer captain, and a boy from the village,” Best recites. “He caught the boy and the captain in a compromising position. There was a confrontation which became physical. The captain fled, and Gilmore walked the boy home.”

 

Ashton is already shaking his head.

 

“Simon’s gone travelling.”

 

“About this tall, skinny, dark hair and big blue eyes?”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“He turned up in the middle of the night with the Yank,” Best explains.

 

“And they’ve cobbled this story together?” Ashton asks. “Why would they do that?”

 

“That’s not my concern. If you’d talked to me last night, then I could’ve cleared Gilmore with something approaching the truth. You didn’t, and now I’m committed to clearing him with a lie.” Best shrugs, and lights a cigarette. “Cobbled together stories have their uses.”

 

“Nobody will believe it.”

 

“Of course they will.” Best grins sardonically. “Why on earth would they lie? A court martial isn’t a place for introspection and deep thought. Plus it will get our boy off the hook, and stick an American flyboy onto it. He’s in the glass house right now awaiting the RAF collecting him.”  

 

“Gilmore won’t go for it.”

 

“Ah.” Best offers Ashton a cigarette which is declined. “I’m afraid that Sergeant Major Gilmore will be unable to attend. It doesn’t matter however as he doesn’t have to be there.”

 

“Sir, what do you mean?” Ashton asks suspiciously.

 

Best examines a speck of ash on his sleeve. “It seems that there was some sort of a mix-up somewhere. The oddest thing, but somehow a dose of cascara found its way into his cocoa. He’s in the infirmary, and can’t be moved.” He taps the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. “Don’t glare at me that way, Lieutenant. A couple of days discomfort is certainly better than a firing squad.”

 

“You had no right to do that!”

 

“Mind your tone, Lieutenant!” Best snaps. “My duty is to this unit, as is  _yours_.”

 

“Yes, Captain!” Ashton snaps to attention.

 

“The court martial begins at nine. I strongly believe it will be concluded within an hour. When the MPs leave him, I would be grateful if you would keep an eye on him, particularly when he finds out the details of his alibi.” Best smiles wryly. “I know the Sergeant Major’s temper of old, and I’d rather he not get shipped right back to the glass house for punching me.”

 

“Why’re you doing this, Sir?”

 

“If you have to ask, then you wouldn’t understand. Dismissed,” Best says firmly.

 

Ashton salutes, and walks towards the door.

 

“And, Lieutenant, if you go  _near_  the infirmary before the court martial is over, then I’ll ensure there’ll be no more cosy meetings in the woods. Clear?”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

***

 

Gilmore, drawn and brittle as a leaf in autumn, is lying curled on his side under the thin, threadbare sheets. He looks over his shoulder and tries to sit up as Ashton walks towards him.

 

“At ease.” Ashton puts another couple of books on the bedside table, and stands with his hands behind his back. “I’m told you might be here for another day or two so I brought you some more reading material.”

 

“That’s very kind of you, Lieutenant.”

 

“You look like…” Ashton trails off.

 

Gilmore raises an eyebrow, and smiles very slightly. “That seems appropriate.”

 

Ashton fidgets, hearing the raspy breathing of the man in the bed behind him. “I’m glad that the court martial saw sense.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Ashton takes a deep breath. “I spoke on your behalf. I thought you should know.”

 

Gilmore’s eyes widen in alarm. “To the court martial?”

 

“No. I mean, that was my intention. I spoke to Captain Best and he told me that… speaking to the court martial was unnecessary.”

 

“I didn’t…” Gilmore gets control of his voice. “That wasn’t necessary, Sir.”

 

“I had to do what I thought was right.”

 

“Bully for you.”

 

“Because I risked imprisonment, and being disowned by my family for  _fun_!” Ashton answers.

 

“Keep your voice down!”

 

“It is,” Ashton says levelly.

 

Gilmore sighs and rolls onto his back. “I’m tired,  _Sir_. Thank you for bringing the books.”

 

“Have it your own way.”

 

***

 

Ashton is walking across the courtyard when a strange whine rises on the wind along with an odd plaintive ululation that seems to emanate from the glass house. He rushes over and joins the guards as they follow the noise into the cell.

 

The cell is completely empty except for a fading blue glow and dying echoes.

 

***

 

“Back to night duty again, eh?” Ashton asks, leaning against the doorjamb and looking into the office where Gilmore is working.

 

“Third time this month,” Gilmore says wryly. “I think I’m being punished.”

 

“Boulton still not recovered?” Ashton walks into the office and casually shuts the door.

 

“Not entirely.” Gilmore fiddles nervously with a pen. “Having Chandler arrested for Glick’s murder means we’re missing him as well.”

 

“Can we talk?”

 

“You mean can you ask me questions, but refuse to open up about yourself?” Gilmore asks.

 

“I didn’t talk to Best in order to spite you.”

 

“Why did you? Whether they executed me, or Chandler, for Glick’s murder it doesn’t make him any less dead. I’d rather a quick execution, than being dragged through the mud, and used as General Bush’s symbol of degenerate homosexuality.”

 

Ashton twists his fingers together. “I couldn’t let them do it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Stupid question,” he mutters.

 

“If you go into town you’ll be able to find a number of young men who, I’m sure, are very reasonable,” Gilmore says coolly.

 

Ashton turns on his heel, and reaches for the door handle.

 

“You never want to talk to me,” Gilmore says quietly.

 

“We’ve talked.”

 

“ _I_  talk, you change the subject.”

 

Ashton turns back and shakes his head at Gilmore. “This is all new to me. You can’t expect me to be as easy with it all as you.”

 

“I know that. I don’t know if my affection and regard are returned.”

 

“Then you’re a fool!”

 

“Oh well, now I’m convinced,” Gilmore says archly.

 

“Don’t be like that. I’ve heard…” Ashton hesitates.

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve heard there’s a big push coming. Any able-bodied men are going to be sent to fight.” He smiles sadly and shrugs. “If we get sent to fight it will be a moot point.”

 

“If you were being sent to fight, you’d have heard by now,” Gilmore says quietly.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“I had my papers this morning,” he says with a thin smile. “I’m back off to France.”

 

“That’s not funny,” Ashton says, around the lump in his throat.

 

“The Nazis are losing ground everyday. It shouldn’t be long now.”

 

“Over by Christmas? They’ve been saying that since the start.” Ashton closes his eyes, and leans back against the door.

 

“Don’t take on,” Gilmore says gently.

 

“Determined to get yourself killed, aren’t you?” Ashton rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

“Determined to save me, aren’t you?” Gilmore replies lightly.

 

“Don’t take the piss. You complain when I don’t talk to you, and you make fun of me when I do.”

 

“I’m sorry; I only meant to tease a little.”

 

“What next, pulling my pigtails?” Ashton says with a smile.

 

“If you like.”

 

“You’ll write to me, whenever you can, great long letters that’ll take me a week to read? Please?”

 

“I’ll write letters as long as dictionaries, but the censor will have his way with them,” Gilmore says.

 

“As long as you tell me about the weather.”

 

“The weather?”

 

“If you are still affectionate enough to tease me, then tell me that the weather is good,” Ashton explains. He licks his lips. “And if not, if you have no more interest in writing to me anymore, then tell me that the weather is poor. That should satisfy the censor.”

 

“It should,” Gilmore agrees. “You’ll have to return the favour though.”

 

“Have no fear of that. What will you do with your books?”

 

“You seem entirely too interested in my books.”

 

“Why do you have a book about learning Danish?” Ashton asks plainly. “It was the only one with a bookmark, and it was well thumbed.”

 

“So I can learn Danish.” Gilmore tilts his head and looks past Ashton. “Heads up, here comes Hollis to whine about something nobody can change.”

 

***

**Part Two**

 

‘ _Lieutenant Ashton,_

_Have arrived here in_ _Calais_ _safely although the crossing was so choppy that a large part of the contingent was heartily sick._

_I wonder why we say ‘heartily sick’? Doesn’t make much sense does it?_

_Major Hove says that we can expect light to medium resistance from the Germans as we head towards the Belgian border. We are not here to liberate but are leaving that to the Americans as we aim eventually for_ _Germany_ _._

_I hope that things are well with you and that everything at the POW camp remains well._

_The weather is good._

_Regards,_

_Sergeant Major Craig Gilmore’_

 

***

 

**‘Dear Sergeant Major G ilmore,**

**Thank you very much for your letter which arrived here less than three weeks after you sent it.**

**Are you well prov isioned there? Rationing here has been slightly alleviated with supplies from the USA arriving.**

**All here is well, although most of the officer s have also returned to active service. Many of the replacements are youngsters straight out of basic training. What fight there was has gone from the prisoners as stories of Nazi losses continue to filter back here.**

**The weather is beautiful here. I hope very m uch that it is good weather with you.**

**Regards,**

**Lieutenant Luke Ashton’**

*******

_‘Dear Lieutenant Ashton,_

_I’m sorry that this w ill be a short letter. We’re all very tired and sleep is impossible. I close my eyes and the images are still there. I’m not alone in this I know. Some of the younger lads have been to the MO for pills to help them sleep. They scream in the night._

_I am under investigation for a mis take that I made when freeing prisoners. When we reached the camps we released all of the prisoners and arranged for them to be returned home. Those that wanted to return home anyway. Unfortunately none of us was familiar with the markings and as well as the yellow stars, there are also red, green, blue, purple and black triangles: all of which prisoners we were correct in freeing. The prisoners with a pink triangle however were imprisoned under the penal code and should have been sent to a civilian prison. I am unsure what will happen if I am sent to Court Martial for this._

_So far we have seen no action. The young lads are growing impatient but f or myself I am in no rush for bloodshed and violence._

_The weather is as perfect as any I have known._

_Sergeant Major Craig Gilmore’_

***

**‘Dear Sergeant Major Gilmore,**

**We are now at a skeleton staff at the camp. Fortunately we have been downgraded to the lowest risk prisoners. Colonel Lawson has been promoted and gone off to fight, as have Captain Best, and several Lieutenants.**

**Since I somehow have seniority I have been promoted to Captain and taken over as camp commander. I have no illusions that this is due to anything more than the fact that all the able bodied officers are away fighting.**

**I have heard stories, of course, but I didn’t think they could be true. I know it is not your faith but I hope you will not be offended if I pray for you all over there.**

**I am not sure what happened with the prisoners – that section was heavily censored – but I’m sure that you would not have released criminals on purpose.**

**The sun is warm in an azure blue sky.**

**Captain Luke Ashton’**

***

_‘Dear Captain Ashton,_

_Congratulations on your promotion. I hope that the little charmers are behaving themselves._

_We saw the ovens today. We had heard about them from the Americans, or more accurately we had heard them NOT talking about them. They don’t talk about them, but shake their heads, and pray according to their lights. We are to escort a number of released prisoners back to their homes in_ _Berlin_ _._

_Some happy news, the quartermaster Sergeant bumped into his two younger brothers. It was a particular surprise as the quartermaster Sergeant has only just joined the unit from Kuala Lumpur where he was fighting the Japanese. (Or as he has insists, where he was running away from the Japanese). The three Cohen brothers were obviously very pleased with their brief reunion and their happiness has eased some of the pall over us all._

_We have still seen no action. There is a trail of destruction and devastation clear from_ _France_ _to_ _Germany_ _where the troops have fled._

_The weather, warm, temperate, and sunny, is helping me to keep going. I dream of sunbathing on a beach somewhere._

_Regards,_

_Sergeant Major Craig Gilmore.’_

***

**‘Dear Sergeant Major Gilmore,**

**Have you heard anything about the court martial that you mentioned might happen? I hate to think of that pressing upon you.**

**There are rumours circulating of entire companies of Germans vanishing as they flee Moscow for Berlin. Obviously it cannot be true but as the stuff of ghost stories it carries some power.**

**More of our lads seem to return every day and I wonder how long things will continue before demob. When the war is over I will return to my flat in London until I have firmer plans.**

**I would love to go sunbathing. The weather is so fine and the sky is such a brilliant blue.**

**Regards,**

**Captain Luke Ashton.’**

***

_‘Dear Captain Ashton,_

_I’m happy to hear about the weather._

_Yes, I have had been formally reprimanded. The inquiry board were satisfied that a genuine mistake was made; that I and the men were **deeply**  troubled by our failure to recapture the criminals. In line with the punishment handed out to other units who made the same mistake (English, Canadian, and American units) we have not suffered any loss of ranks. We have been told that we will not be placed in a position to repeat the mistake._

_We entered_ _Berlin_ _last week. The Russians and Americans are debating what to do with the city while we aid the sick, starving, and dying._

_The quartermaster Sergeant, Cohen, speaks a little Russian as his Mother is Russian. I am not sure what it pertains too that he knows enough foul language and filthy jokes to ingratiate himself with the pessimistic, cynical Russians._

_I have received my demob papers. In two months time, on the 18 th, I will return to England. My papers say London dock but I have been told that can change._

_The sun is shining._

_Regards,_

_Sergeant Major Craig Gilmore.’_

***

**‘Dear Sergeant Major Gilmore,**

**I have my papers, I demob in one week. If I do not hear from you beforehand I will be at London Dock on the 18 th so that we can catch up.**

**I look forward to discussing the weather in person.**

**Captain Luke Ashton’**

***

 

Craig Gilmore alights at London Dock carrying his belongings in a pack. Luke Ashton is still waiting on the dockside, has been waiting for the past six hours, in the cold rain.

 

He smiles when he sees the familiar stride. He rushes over and then his smile falters as he becomes aware of the wash of soldiers and sailors surrounding them.

 

“Captain.”

 

“Sergeant Major.”

 

They stand awkwardly for a moment, and then Craig shakes Luke’s hand firmly.

 

“There’s a little pub around the corner… I thought we could go and have a drink?”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

***

 

They sit in a corner of the pub, not drinking pints of beer.

 

“I’ve brought something for you.” Luke puts a small but thick, leather-bound book onto the table.

 

“A book?”

 

“It’s my diary,” Luke explains. “You want to know about me; this is it.”

“Isn’t that very personal?” Craig asks.

 

“That’s the point.”

 

“Oh.” Craig drums his fingers on the book. “That’s a big step.”

 

“I thought about things a lot when you were away,” Luke says quietly.

 

“Um, do you think there’s anywhere private around here?”

 

Luke folds his arms, and leans forward onto the table. “If you can wait, we can drive to my flat. Nobody would think anything about you staying with me for a few days.”

 

“No servants?”

 

“Youngest, and least favoured, son. I have enough to live on comfortably.” Luke raises his eyebrows as Craig stands up. “I’ve not finished my drink.”

 

“I’ll buy you as many drinks as you want,” Craig says in a conciliatory voice. He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Afterwards.”

 

***

 

Craig stretches out luxuriously and smiles sleepily at Luke. “Hello.”

 

“Hello.” Luke puts two cups of tea on the bedside table.

 

Craig flashes him a grateful smile, picks up the book, and rolls onto his front to read it. Luke climbs under the covers and climbs on top of Craig; resting his face in the small of the older man’s back.

 

“Comfy are you?” Craig asks, surprised.

 

“Yes.”

 

Craig turns over a page in the diary. “You seem to have been very fond of your governess.”

 

“Miss Ackland.”

 

“Uh, yes.”

 

“I had a nanny until I was five, but I don’t remember her, then Miss Ackland looked after me until I came of age,” Luke explains. “She was nice, always happy to listen to me rabbiting on, and she didn’t mind telling me the same bedtime story every night for years.”

 

“Sounds like my mam,” Craig says warmly.

 

“My mum died in childbirth.”

 

“Younger sister?”

 

“No,” Luke says flatly.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay. Never miss what you never had.” He strokes the back of Craig’s arm. “Are your parents alive?”

 

“No, my dad died when I was seventeen, and my mam died when I was twenty three.”

 

“But you saw the bodies that he buried?” Luke asks.

 

“Of course, a good Welsh boy helps his dad after lessons are over,” Craig says casually, turning over another page in the diary.

 

“You  _helped_?”

 

“Nothing too bad. I didn’t have to undress them, or wash the bodies.”

 

“What did you do?” Luke asks suspiciously.

 

“Normal apprentice sort of things. Kept the place clean and tidy, learned to make coffins, and when I was older, a tiny bit of sewing.”

 

“Sewing?”

 

“You don’t want to know,” Craig assures him, turning a page.

 

“You’re right, I don’t.” Luke wriggles up the bed and pushes his face into Craig’s hair. “I love this.”

 

“Lying sprawled all over me?” Craig smiles at the younger man over his shoulder. “Do you have plans, now the war is over?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Hmm, monied middle class with no pretence of an occupation?”

 

“Bertie Wooster in person,” Luke says with a nod. “I have a comfortable allowance from my mother’s estate.”

 

“It didn’t go to your father?”

 

“No, it’s a legal thing from when her parents died. She didn’t actually get any money direct; she was the trustee for the inheritance for my brothers and me. My brothers both have their full inheritance now, but I don’t get mine until I’m thirty. My allowance comes from the interest.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Do you have plans?” Luke asks tentatively.

 

Craig turns over onto his back so that Luke is balanced on his front. “I do, actually.”

 

“Are you going to tell me?”

 

“I’m going to Denmark.” Craig gently strokes Luke’s hair. “I have a school teacher’s position promised to me.”

 

“That’s why you were learning Danish.”

 

“You know, if you wanted, you could come too?” Craig says casually, not looking at him.

 

“I don’t speak the language.”

 

“You could learn.”

 

“Or you could be a teacher here,” Luke answers.

 

“I could be arrested for being with you, here,” Craig stutters. “Assuming that you want to…”

 

“I do. But we could be arrested anywhere.”

 

“Not Denmark.”

 

“Why not?” Luke frowns.

 

“Because homosexuality was legalised there in ’33.”

 

“What?” Luke sits up suddenly, making Craig wince.

 

“It’s legal. No law against it, no hard labour, and no psychiatric treatment.” He sits up and puts his arms around the younger man’s waist. “I have a little money put by to buy a home there.”

 

“Not a crime?” Luke says blankly.

 

“Will you think about it? I have a few weeks. There’s no rush.”

 

“It brings a new meaning to ‘living in sin’,” Luke says quietly.

 

“Yes, and that’s something you’re going to have to deal with sooner or later.”

 

“I know we’re taught it’s a sin. But it doesn’t  _feel_  wrong. This is the way I was made, the way I was born.” He chews his lower lip and shakes his head. “I don’t believe a compassionate God would punish me for being in love.”

 

“There’s your family to think about. Don’t rush into a decision.”

 

“I’ll pray about it. You understand, don’t you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I don’t have an occupation,” Luke says with anxious, urgent eyes. “If I do, won’t I need an occupation?”

 

“That would help.”

 

***

 

**1950**

**Denmark**

 

Luke finishes at the British Consulate for the day, waves goodbye to his co-workers, and cycles home to the little house he shares with Craig.

 

“Hello?” he calls, shutting the front door behind him.

 

“Hello,” Craig calls back. He is sitting in the kitchen marking a pile of exercise books. He looks up and smiles at Luke. “Good day?”

 

“Yeah, great.” Luke kisses the older man on the cheek, and then fills the kettle. “What’s with the hamper?” he asks, nodding at a basket on the dresser.

 

“Thought we could have a picnic in the park,” Craig suggests. “Is it still nice out?”

 

“Yeah.” Luke sits down on his knee. “The weather is beautiful.”

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
